The night before the Fourth of July, I stayed late at the office, lost in busywork until a call shattered my world. My foster sister Cynthia had died suddenly, and shockingly, she’d named me in her will. I left the city with a heavy heart, unsure what secrets awaited me beyond the grief.

My boss noticed my distraction and insisted I take the holiday off. Outside, the streets buzzed with celebration, families laughing and lighting fireworks, while I felt the sharp sting of loneliness. Then the attorney called again—Cynthia had left something unexpected, a mystery tied to our past.

At her small, quiet funeral, only a handful attended. Cynthia’s foster mom asked if we’d stayed close—I had to admit we hadn’t. But Cynthia had been searching for the truth about our father, and now I held a DNA test proving we were siblings. Her final letter urged me to find him and promised she would somehow return.

I tracked him down—older, remorseful, but still our father. He confessed his regrets but also his love for us both. That day, through tears and tentative smiles, we began healing t