Rain.
A closed casket.
My mother crying.
My aunt holding my shoulders.
Everyone telling me the accident had been terrible.
Too terrible for an open casket.
I had never questioned it.
Not once.
I sat again.
Emily whispered, “Dad?”
I looked at her.
“I don’t know.”
Richard reached for the envelope.
“There was one more thing inside.”
I hadn’t noticed the smaller folded paper.
I opened it.
A handwritten note.
Only two sentences.
HE STILL DOESN’T KNOW WHO HIS FATHER WAS.
KEEP HIM CLOSE UNTIL THE ESTATE CLEARS.
My mouth went dry.
Below the note was a date.
Six years ago.
The month I started working at Greg’s restaurant.
Emily read over my shoulder.
Her voice shook.
“Estate?”
I looked at Richard.
“What estate?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said the words that turned every act of kindness from that morning into something far larger.
