I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. 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.

did he discover?”

Richard hesitated.

“Your father had been intercepting the mail.”

Silence.

The alley suddenly felt too small.

“My father?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head.

“No.”

Richard didn’t argue.

He simply opened another folder.

Inside were photographs.

My father standing at a mailbox.

My father carrying envelopes into the house.

My father shredding papers.

My father throwing something into a trash bin.

The dates were printed beneath every photograph.

Six years ago.

Five years ago.

Four years ago.

Three.

Two.

One.

My hands began to tremble.

“He knew,” I whispered.

“He knew your grandfather was trying to reach you.”

Richard nodded.

“And he made sure you never knew.”

I looked away.

For eighteen years, I had believed my grandfather had abandoned us.

I had spent birthdays wondering why I had no grandparents.

I had told myself maybe he didn’t want me.

Maybe he didn’t care.

Maybe I wasn’t worth