The grief was a heavy, suffocating blanket, but the funeral felt like a performance. As I stood by the urn of the only man I ever called “Dad,” strangers offered hollow platitudes about how much Michael loved me. He was seventy-eight, a man of grease-stained hands and quiet strength who had raised me since I was two. My mother, Carina, had died when I was only four, leaving Michael to navigate the world of pigtails and parent-teacher conferences alone. I never questioned our life together; he was my father in every way that mattered. But at his service, a creased, older man named Frank leaned in and whispered a sentence that turned my history into a lie: “Check the bottom drawer in your stepfather’s garage.”
That night, the house felt haunted by the scent of his aftershave and wood polish. I retreated to the garage, the air thick with the smell of cedar and motor oil. The bottom drawer of Michael’s workbench was deep and stubborn, groaning as I forced it open. Inside sat a manila folder and a sealed envelope with my name, Clover, written in his sturdy, blocky print.
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