The envelope felt heavier than paper should. Inside, I found a brass key, a folded letter, and a stack of old photographs held together with a rubber band. The top photo showed a skinny boy of twelve in an oversized winter coat, holding a scholarship certificate and smiling at nobody. It was me. Beneath it were dozens more, every birthday and graduation, each taken from a distance, as if by someone who never dared come closer.

My knees nearly gave out. The attorney said quietly, “Read the letter before you speak to anyone, because Dorothy’s cousin is already on his way.” I looked up. A black sedan was skidding through the cemetery gates, and a man in an expensive coat stepped out, shouting that the marriage was a fraud and that I was a thief.