The night before July Fourth, while everyone else planned barbecues and fireworks, I stayed late at the office, pretending to be busy. I didn’t want to admit that I had no real plans — no family photos waiting for me, no backyard parties. Just me and a cold cup of coffee in an empty skyscraper.
“You’re still here?” My boss, Michael, poked his head in, surprised.
“Just finishing up some emails…” I lied.
“Nope. You’re off duty,” he insisted, tossing a box of cookies onto my desk. “Go enjoy the holiday like everyone else.”
I stepped out onto the deserted city street, cookies in hand, feeling lonelier than ever. My phone buzzed — an unknown number.
“Hello?” I answered hesitantly.
“This is Andrew K., attorney for Cynthia B.”
Cynthia. My foster sister. The one who used to comfort me when we were shuttled from one foster home to the next. The sister who later dedicated her life to finding her father, drifting further away from me each year.
“Is… is Cynthia okay?” I already felt the answer tightening in my chest.
“She passed away last week. She left something for you. I need you to come in for the reading of her will.”
I found myself wandering aimlessly as fireworks bloomed in the sky above, lost in memories of a sister I hadn’t truly spoken to in years.
Instead of packing for a holiday trip, I threw a couple of sandwiches in my old backpack and grabbed my dog, Mr. Jenkins.
“Ready for an adventure, old man?” I asked. He just blinked at me, unimpressed.
My ancient car sputtered to life on the fourth try. “Knew you still had it in you,” I laughed, tapping the dashboard.
Cynthia’s funeral was heartbreakingly small. A few worn-out folding chairs, only three people present: her elderly foster mother, her grandmother, and me.
After the service, the lawyer handed me an envelope. I slipped it into my purse, and Cynthia’s foster mother, Ellen, pulled me aside.
“She called me not long ago,” Ellen whispered, her voice trembling. “She said she found him — her father. But she got sick. She was so close.”
I promised Ellen I’d let her know if the envelope contained anything important. A promise I already knew I wouldn’t keep. Deep down, I felt that Cynthia’s last message was meant for me alone.
That night, in a cheap motel room with Mr. Jenkins snoring beside me, I finally opened the envelope. Inside was a letter in Cynthia’s familiar messy handwriting and a plastic sleeve — a DNA test result.
The words “Siblings confirmed” were circled in bright red ink.
I read Cynthia’s letter through tears. She explained that while searching for her dad, she discovered we were biological sisters. Our mother had died when we were babies, and our father, unable to cope, gave us up.
She wrote about using a hairbrush I’d left behind for a DNA sample, about her excitement to finally share the truth with me, and her plans to meet our father. But she’d fallen ill before she could see him.
A photograph slipped out — our father, young and smiling, holding two tiny babies.
I knew the café in the photo. Without thinking, I made a promise to Cynthia right then: “I’ll find him. For us.”
When I finally stood on his porch with Mr. Jenkins in my arms, my heart nearly gave out.
An older man with kind, sad eyes opened the door. I showed him the photo and told him everything.
He broke down, confessing that he’d loved us but felt too broken to keep us after our mother died. He believed giving us up meant giving us a better chance.
We cried and hugged, and for the first time in years, I felt like I belonged.
Later that day, we visited Cynthia’s grave together. We left flowers and a photo of our mother.
“How do we begin again after so many lost years?” he asked, his voice breaking.
“We start from now,” I replied, squeezing his hand. “We build the family we missed.”
That night, we grilled burgers in his backyard, Mr. Jenkins wagging his tail at our feet.
And as I looked up at the quiet night sky, I realized: for the first time, I wasn’t alone. I finally had a family to come home to.