I turned eighteen on a Tuesday.simo No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends

She looked directly at my father.

“Why?”

My father clenched his jaw.

“I didn’t think James had good intentions.”

Margaret’s voice became colder.

“That doesn’t explain why you destroyed the correspondence.”

My father looked at me.

“You were a child.”

“I was sixteen when the first letter arrived.”

He froze.

“You knew?”

I asked.

“You knew I was waiting for answers.”

My father’s expression cracked.

“I was trying to protect this family.”

I shook my head.

“No.”

I pointed toward the documents.

“You were protecting yourself.”

My stepbrother suddenly stood.

“Dad?”

Everyone looked at him.

He swallowed.

“Did you really take Nathan’s money?”

My father didn’t answer.

My stepbrother looked horrified.

“The three thousand dollars?”

My father finally said, “It was family money.”

“No,” I said.

“It was mine.”

Richard placed the bank records on the table.

“Three thousand two hundred fourteen dollars and sixty-three cents.”