Inside the envelope, along with the DNA test, was a letter from Cynthia. Her words hit me like a wave.

She wrote that she had spent years trying to find her father. It hadn’t been easy — he didn’t want to be found — but she never gave up. During that search, she discovered something she never expected: she had a sister. Me.

We’d been brought into foster care as newborns. Our mother had died, and our father, overwhelmed with grief, had asked that we be separated — hoping it would give us a better chance at finding families.

She had tested my hairbrush the last time I visited her place. The results confirmed it: we were sisters.

Cynthia wrote that she was planning to meet our dad the next day, but she had gotten sick and needed to see a doctor first. Even then, she sounded hopeful. She was excited. She told me to come visit her soon.