My hands shook as I unfolded the letter. It was dated the week he died, and Gus’s handwriting was slow and careful. The first line read: “Julia, I am the father you were told died when you were seven.” I stopped breathing. The photograph in my lap suddenly felt heavy, and I could hear the coffee sleeve crinkling in my fist. Two years of mornings outside that subway station rushed through my mind, every question he had ever asked me.

Before I could read further, the doorbell rang. A man in a gray coat stood on my porch holding a leather folder. “I am Gus’s attorney,” he said. “He insisted you open this before anyone else does.” Then he saw the letter in my hands and whispered, “Please tell me you have not reached the last page yet.”