The night before the 4th of July, I stayed late in my office, pretending I had work to do. One unexpected call about my foster sister’s inheritance forced me to leave the city and face a truth I wasn’t ready for.
I was sitting in the office, clutching a mug of cold coffee. The huge windows gave me away completely.
Who in their right mind stays late in a skyscraper the night before the Fourth of July?
“You’re still here?”
My boss, Michael, poked his head around the door.
“Yeah. Just catching up on emails…”
“Nope. Not today.”
He tossed a box of my own cookies onto my desk.
“You’re banned from working tonight and tomorrow. Take it and go watch the fireworks like a normal person.”
“Mike, I really don’t…”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
“No excuses. It’s Independence Day. Even you deserve it.”
I left the office with the box of cookies and stepped onto a half-empty street, breathing in the warm evening air. Everyone had already left. Some were at the lake with friends, others at barbecues with kids.
My messages were overflowing with family photos I wasn’t part of. I was alone in a big city that felt emptier with every passing hour.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
Suddenly, my phone buzzed in my pocket. An unknown number.
“Hello?”
“My name is Andrew K. I’m an attorney for Cynthia B.”
I froze in the lobby. Cynthia… Cynthia, who used to wipe my tears at night when they shuffled me from one family to another, and then back again.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
Cynthia, who, once we were grown, threw herself into her wild quest to find her father, drifting further and further from me every year.
She used to say, “I won’t die until I find him!”
But after that… she just disappeared.
“Is… is Cynthia okay?”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
I already knew the answer, but asked anyway.
“I’m afraid she passed away last week. She named you in her will. I’ll need you to come in for the reading.”
I wandered through the city without even noticing where I was going. The first fireworks began blooming in the night sky, but I couldn’t have cared less.
Why would she leave something to me? And what on earth could she have possibly left behind?
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
***
While everyone else was pulling coolers and kids into shiny SUVs for barbecues, I was stuffing two sad sandwiches into my old backpack.
“Not exactly a holiday feast, huh, Mr. Jenkins?”
My grumpy little Spitz just blinked at me from the couch, ears perked.
“Alright, Your Majesty, let’s go,” I sighed, scooping him up.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
He gave me a low grumble, his way of telling me he’d rather stay home.
“Yeah, me too, buddy.”
I tossed my bag onto the passenger seat and set him down.
“Okay, old girl… come on, come on…” I whispered to the steering wheel as I turned the key.
One click. Nothing. Second try — a sad cough.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
“Don’t do this today. Please, baby.”
Third try — a wheeze. Fourth — the engine finally caught with a rough purr.
“Ha! Knew you still loved me!”
I grinned, giving the cracked dashboard a little pat. I bought it used after half a decade of overtime and saving every dime I could. We pulled out of the lot, the July sun already burning the blacktop.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
“Let’s see if we remember how to do this, huh? Just you, me, and twenty bucks of gas.”
I flicked on the radio, then found an oldies station halfway through a song.
“Oh, I love this one!”
I hummed along. The drive felt endless. Empty highways, pop-up firework stands, families with flags on their mailboxes.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
***
Cynthia’s funeral was so small, it almost looked like a mistake. A few folding chairs on brittle grass. Only three people came.
1. Cynthia’s foster mother, Ellen, who raised her for two blurry years until she aged out.
2. Cynthia’s Granny, Louise, nodding off and mumbling at the gravestones.
3. Me, clutching Mr. Jenkins.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
After the funeral, the attorney pressed an envelope into my hand. I barely had time to slip it into my purse when I heard Ellen’s voice.
“Sweetheart… did you two ever talk? I mean, really talk, these past years?”
I swallowed. “Not really. Cynthia calls sometimes. Not often. She’d be in some motel or halfway house… it was hard to keep up.”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
Ellen sniffed, her hands trembling on her cane. “I thought so. She called me once. Not long ago. Said she’d found him.”
“Her father? Did she find him?”
“She did. Or thought she did.”
Ellen’s eyes went glassy. “She called me from a shelter, coughing so bad I could barely understand her. Pneumonia. I told her to come home, I’d help her see a doctor, I’d send money…”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
“Don’t blame yourself. She was a stubborn girl.”
“Yeah. She just kept saying she’d figured it out, that it was almost done. Just one last step.”
A wet hiccup of a sob escaped Ellen’s throat.
“And then the hospital called me. Said my girl was gone. My Cynthia was gone.”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
Ellen glanced at the envelope still peeking from my purse.
“Maybe there’s something in there for me… if you find anything. Promise me you’ll tell me, alright?”
“I promise,” I lied, though deep down I knew there wouldn’t be.
Whatever Cynthia dug up, I felt it in my bones: it wasn’t meant for anyone else’s eyes.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
Half an hour later, I drove to the cheapest motel I could find and checked in with Mr. Jenkins tucked under my arm. Finally. Just me and the envelope.
Whatever Cynthia had found, I was about to find too.
***
The envelope sat on the nightstand like it was mocking me. I’d showered, walked Mr. Jenkins, and even made cheap motel coffee. Anything to not touch it. But there it was. Waiting.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
I sat cross-legged on the bed. “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got for me, Cynthia.”
My hands trembled as I tore it open. Inside was a single folded letter and a plastic sleeve…
A DNA test result!
I held the paper up to the dim lamp. Numbers. Percentages. A single line circled in red ink: Siblings confirmed.
“Jesus Christ! You weren’t kidding!”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
I had to stand up. I paced the room, Mr. Jenkins following me with his sleepy eyes.
“Did you hear that, buddy? I’ve got a sister. Or I did. And it’s her.”
I dropped back onto the bed and smoothed out the letter. Cynthia’s handwriting looked just like I remembered — messy, loopy, like she was always in a rush.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
“My dear little sister! Yeah. I’m still in shock, too.
Forgive me for drifting away. I spent years trying to find my father. It wasn’t easy. He didn’t want to be found. But you know me. 😏
Because of that search, I found out I have a sister. We were brought to foster care so tiny, right after we were born. Mom died, and Dad just… couldn’t cope with the grief.
They split us up right away, at his request, so it’d be easier for us to find a family.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
Last time, you left your hairbrush at my place, so I tested it. DNA doesn’t lie.
I’m coming back soon, and you better come visit me! I was supposed to meet Dad tomorrow. But I got sick. Need to chug cough syrup first (ha! sarcasm — I’m off to the doctor).
With love,
Your sis, Cynthia.”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
Tears hit the paper in fat drops, smudging the ink.
“God, Cynthia… Why didn’t you call me sooner?”
I turned the letter over, and a photo slipped out. A young man was sitting on a café bench with two tiny babies in his arms. Scrawled at the bottom: “My girls.”
There was a name of the cafe. My heart stuttered.
“Wait. Wait a second! I’ve been there. That’s in the suburbs. I went there once for work, years ago…”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
I held the photo up to Mr. Jenkins.
“What if… what if he’s still there?”
My mind spun. I imagined Cynthia, coughing her lungs out in some shelter, clutching this photo, so sure she’d stand face to face with the man who let us go. She never got that chance.
I looked down at Mr. Jenkins, who thumped his tail once.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
“We’re going on the road again. But first…” I sank back against the lumpy motel pillows. “We need to sleep.”
I held the photo against my chest until my eyes finally closed. One last promise echoing in my mind:
“I’ll find him, Cynthia. I swear. For both of us.”
***
Our Dad looked older than in the photo, of course — his hair was mostly gray, his shoulders a little stooped. But the eyes were the same.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
I found him thanks to the café owner, who seemed to know every old man who lived nearby.
Finally, I stood there on his porch, clutching Mr. Jenkins. The door opened. My Dad appeared.
“Can I help you?”
I tried to find my voice, but it broke in my throat.
“I… I think you’re my father,” I whispered. “And I know this is all crazy, but it’s true. Cynthia… she spent her whole life trying to find you. She… she gave everything for this.”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
I handed him the photo.
“I remember that day,” he said, his voice cracking. “I took that photo right after you girls came home from the hospital. I knew I… I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep you. I was already drowning. But I wanted something… something to remind me I’d done one good thing in my life.”
“You did love us. Didn’t you?”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
“With everything I had. But it wasn’t enough. I thought you’d be better off. Two fresh families, a chance at love. I thought I was giving you more. But I was wrong. I was so wrong.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked at me, really looked.
“I never married again. Never even tried. I never could love anyone else after your mother. And losing you girls… it just…”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
He shook his head. “I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t strong enough to keep you with me.”
I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. He smelled faintly of old wood and the coffee brewing inside. His shoulders trembled under my hands.
“Cynthia did this,” I said against his chest. “She found you.”
We visited the cemetery later that afternoon. I brought fresh wildflowers. Dad carried an old photo of Mom he still kept in his wallet.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
“I’ve never stopped loving her,” he told me, kneeling to lay the flowers.
I pressed my palm to the cool stone.
“Cynthia didn’t want us stuck in the past — she wanted us to find each other again.”
“How do we start over? After all these wasted years?”
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
“We don’t think about wasted years,” I said, taking his hand. “We make what we never had. A family.”
Mr. Jenkins let out a sharp bark beside us, like he agreed. We both laughed through our tears.
“Smart dog,” Dad said, wiping his eyes. “So… how do you feel about barbecues?”
“Perfect! Let’s go home, Dad. Let’s have our own fireworks this time.”
That night, we stood around a little grill in Dad’s backyard. The smell of charred corn and burgers filled the warm summer air.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t alone on the Fifth of July. For the first time, I had somewhere to go back to.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Pexels
Tell us what you think about this story, and share it with your friends. It might inspire them and brighten their day.
