At her small, quiet funeral, only a handful attended. Cynthia’s foster mom asked if we’d stayed close—I had to admit we hadn’t. But Cynthia had been searching for the truth about our father, and now I held a DNA test proving we were siblings. Her final letter urged me to find him and promised she would somehow return.
I tracked him down—older, remorseful, but still our father. He confessed his regrets but also his love for us both. That day, through tears and tentative smiles, we began healing the family broken for too long. For the first time in years, I faced the Fifth of July with hope, no longer alone.
