The night before the 4th of July, I stayed late at the office, staring into a mug of cold coffee.
Who in their right mind sits in a skyscraper past sunset the night before Independence Day?
“Still here?”
My boss, Michael, leaned against the doorframe.
“Yeah. Just finishing up emails.”
He tossed a box of cookies onto my desk. “Not tonight. You’re banned from working. Go watch fireworks like a normal person.”
I gave him a weak smile, grabbed the cookies, and stepped into the near-empty street. Families were already gathered lakeside, grilling hot dogs, sending selfies. My phone buzzed nonstop with group photos I wasn’t part of.
I felt hollow.
That’s when an unknown number lit up my screen.
“Hello?”
“My name is Andrew K. I’m an attorney for Cynthia B.”
My chest tightened. Cynthia—my foster sister. The girl who used to wipe my tears when the system shuffled me between homes. The one who swore she wouldn’t die until she found her father.
“Is she… okay?” I already knew the answer.
“I’m sorry. She passed away last week. She named you in her will. I’ll need you to come for the reading.”
The first fireworks erupted overhead, but I couldn’t hear them. All I could think was: Why me? Why now?
The Funeral
By morning, I was cramming sad sandwiches into a backpack. “Holiday feast of champions, huh, Mr. Jenkins?” My little Spitz yawned on the couch.
Hours later, I stood at Cynthia’s graveside. Only three of us had come: Ellen, her former foster mom. Louise, her fading grandmother. And me.
Afterward, Ellen clutched my arm. “Sweetheart, did you and Cynthia ever really talk, lately?”
“Not much,” I admitted. “She drifted. Always chasing after her father.”
Ellen’s eyes glistened. “She called me not long ago. Said she found him. Coughed through every word. I begged her to come home, to see a doctor… but she wouldn’t. She said she had one last step left.”
Her voice broke. “And then the hospital called.”
I pressed her hand. “Don’t blame yourself. Cynthia was stubborn.”
Ellen nodded at the envelope the lawyer had slipped into my purse. “If there’s anything in there… promise you’ll tell me?”
“I promise,” I lied. But deep down, I knew: whatever Cynthia left was meant for me alone.
The Envelope
Later, in a cheap motel room, I sat cross-legged on the bed, the envelope glaring at me from the nightstand.
“Alright, Cynthia,” I whispered. “What secret did you drag to the grave?”
Inside: a letter. A DNA test result. A single line circled in red: Siblings confirmed.
My breath caught.
“Mr. Jenkins, did you hear that? She wasn’t just my foster sister. She was my real sister.”
Cynthia’s messy handwriting spilled across the page:
“Dear little sister, I spent years chasing Dad. It nearly killed me. But because of it, I discovered the truth: you and I were never supposed to be separated. Mom died. Dad couldn’t cope. He asked the system to split us so we’d each have a better chance. DNA doesn’t lie—I tested your hairbrush. It’s us. Always us. I was supposed to meet Dad tomorrow. But I got sick. Just one last step, right? With love, your sis, Cynthia.”
A photo slipped out. A young man on a café bench holding two newborns in his arms. Scribbled at the bottom: “My girls.”
My heart lurched. I knew that café.
“Jenkins… if that place is still there, maybe he is too.”
Finding Him
The next day, I tracked the café owner down. Yes, he remembered the man in the photo. Yes, he still lived nearby.
Soon, I was standing on a creaky porch, clutching my dog like a lifeline. The door opened.
“Can I help you?”
My voice cracked. “I think… I think you’re my father.” I handed him the photo.
His hand trembled. “I remember this day. Right after the hospital. I knew I couldn’t keep you. I thought splitting you girls up would give you a better shot at love, at family. But… I was wrong.”
Tears streaked his cheeks. “I loved you both. More than I can say. I just wasn’t strong enough.”
I stepped forward and embraced him. He smelled of old wood and coffee. His shoulders shook beneath my arms.
“Cynthia found you,” I whispered. “Even if it cost her everything.”
A New Beginning
That afternoon, we visited Cynthia’s grave together. He laid wildflowers. I pressed my palm to the stone.
“She wanted this,” I told him. “Not for us to grieve, but to find each other again.”
“How do we start over? After all these years?” he asked.
“We don’t count the years we lost,” I said, taking his hand. “We build what we still have.”
Mr. Jenkins barked, as if sealing the pact. We both laughed through tears.
That night, fireworks lit the sky as we stood around his rusty grill. The air filled with the smell of burgers and corn, laughter blending with the crackle of sparklers.
For the first time in my life, the Fifth of July didn’t feel lonely.
For the first time, I wasn’t just surviving—I belonged.