The night before the Fourth of July, I stayed late at the office to avoid another lonely holiday—until a lawyer called about my foster sister Cynthia’s will. She’d died, and for some reason, left something for me. I packed up my grumpy little dog, Mr. Jenkins, and drove through the heat to her small, quiet funeral.
Afterward, I was handed an envelope: a letter, a DNA test, and a photo. The test said Cynthia and I were full sisters. The photo showed a man holding two newborns, a café name scrawled on the back, and a note: “My girls.”
Cynthia had discovered the truth while searching for her father, but pneumonia took her before she could meet him. I followed the café clue to a suburb and found him—older, worn, and carrying years of guilt. When I told him who I was, he cried. “I thought I was giving you a better life,” he said.
We visited Cynthia’s grave together and promised to start again. That night we grilled burgers in his backyard, the fireworks rumbling in the distance. For the first time, I wasn’t alone. For the first time, I had family.
