For 22 years, my adoptive father worked as the university’s night janitor to pay for my tuition. On my graduation day, my wealthy biological parents, who abandoned me as a sick baby, showed up demanding VIP seats. “A cleaner shouldn’t be seen with the Valedictorian,” my bio-mom sneered, trying to push him away from the cameras. But when I was called to the stage, I bypassed the VIP section entirely, took off my graduation gown, and walked straight toward the man in the faded blue uniform…

“I just want to make sure you didn’t leave anything important,” I said, reaching up to the dusty top shelf of the locker. My fingers brushed against cold, heavy metal.

I pulled it down. It was a small, heavy steel cash box, thick with years of accumulated dust. It was locked with a small padlock.

“Dad? What’s this?” I asked, turning around.

Thomas frowned, shuffling over. “Forgot about that. Had it since you were a baby. It’s just old photos, some of your kindergarten drawings I didn’t want to get ruined in the apartment floods.” He fumbled on his keyring and produced a tiny silver key, clicking the padlock open.

He was right. On top were faded Polaroids of a gap-toothed kid and a younger, slightly less tired Thomas. But as I shifted the photos, my fingers caught on something stiff and formal at the very bottom.

It was a thick, sealed envelope bearing the crest of the public hospital where I was born. It was marked: CONFIDENTIAL: SURRENDER RECORDS – DO NOT DESTROY.

“I never opened it,” Thomas said quietly, looking at the envelope. “The social worker gave it to me when the adoption went through. Said it was your biological file. I figured… well, I figured if you ever wanted to know, you should be the one to break the seal.”