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 read the first paragraph twice.

I knew about you only after your mother left Bellmere. By then, she had made it clear that she wanted no contact with me. I respected that decision, even when it broke my heart. I sent letters. They were returned unopened. I sent money through an attorney, but it was never accepted.

Years later, I learned that your mother had died and that you were being raised by your father. I tried again to reach you.

Your father answered instead.

My fingers tightened around the page.

He told me you wanted nothing to do with me. He said your mother had spoken of me with bitterness and that contacting you would only disturb your life.

I believed him longer than I should have.

A cold feeling moved through my chest.

My father had told me my grandfather died before I was born. He had never mentioned letters. Never mentioned money. Never mentioned that my grandfather had tried to find me.