My father threw me out on my eighteenth birthday, stole the $3,000 I’d saved from working after school, and used it for my stepbrother. Nine days later, while I was digging through a restaurant dumpster for something to eat, a stranger in an expensive suit called my name and told me my supposedly dead grandfather had left me everything. But there was one condition nobody had warned me about.

“I saw that note.”

“So what did she tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re his attorney.”

“I was not her attorney.”

The distinction sounded practiced, but not evasive.

“Did she leave anything else?”

Richard paused.

“There is a sealed file in the house. Your grandfather instructed me to give it to you only if you asked about your mother’s final year.”

“I’m asking.”

“Then I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

“No. Tell me now.”

“It concerns medical records and a letter your mother wrote.”

My heart began to beat faster.

“What letter?”

“One addressed to you.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“Why didn’t anyone give it to me?”

“Your grandfather wanted you to be old enough to understand it. Then he wanted to tell you himself.”

“He didn’t.”

“No.”

Richard’s voice softened.

“I’m sorry, Nathan.”

I ended the call and stood in silence.