The night before the Fourth of July, I stayed late at the office, pretending to work. Then a call changed everything—my foster sister Cynthia had passed, and I was named in her will. I left the city with a knot in my stomach, unsure what to expect.

My boss caught me lingering and forced me to take the holiday off. Outside, the streets were empty, full of people celebrating with family—while I felt more alone than ever. Then the attorney called with news that Cynthia had left me something mysterious.

At her tiny funeral, only a few showed up. Ellen, Cynthia’s foster mom, asked if we’d stayed close. The answer was no. Cynthia had been chasing the truth about our father—and now I held a DNA test proving we were siblings. A letter from Cynthia promised she’d come back and wanted me to visit.

I found him, our father—older and full of regret. He’d loved us but felt weak. That day, with tears and laughter, we started something new: a family finally together. For the first time in years, I wasn’t alone on the Fifth of July.