Three days later, the phone rang. It was the lawyer, asking me to come in immediately. His voice sounded urgent, and my stomach tightened as I prepared for more disappointment.
When I arrived, the office was empty. The lawyer handed me a small wooden box, worn smooth from years of handling. “He left this for you,” he said gently. “His instructions were very clear.”
Inside the box were photographs—pictures of us at the river with crooked fishing poles, pictures of him laughing while I proudly held up a tiny fish. There were school awards I barely remembered bringing home, carefully saved and stacked.
And then I saw them: letters. One for every year he raised me.
His handwriting filled each page with memories, worries, hopes, and love. He wrote about how proud he was of me, how watching me grow changed him, and how being my father had been the greatest privilege of his life. Not duty. Not responsibility.
At the bottom of the box lay a copy of the will. Everything he owned had been divided equally—between his biological children and me.
