Declan slid the letter across the table with shaking fingers. The handwriting was neat and unfamiliar, and it began: “Dear Declan, my name is Raymond Pruitt, and I am your grandfather. Your mother does not know I exist, because I made a promise to your father that I have kept for twenty-one years.” My heart stopped. I read the next line over his shoulder, and my hand flew to my mouth. “He is not who you think he is, and neither am I.”

Before I could speak, the doorbell rang. Declan and I looked at each other. Through the glass, I saw an elderly man in a gray coat holding a small wooden box, his shoulders trembling. Declan stood slowly and opened the door. The man’s eyes filled with tears. “Happy birthday, Declan,” he whispered. “I am sorry it took me this long to knock.”