Julian drew a slow breath. “I always knew I was adopted,” he said, his voice unsteady. “But my adoptive mother gave me this cross last spring, with a letter she asked me to open only when I was ready.” He pulled a folded paper from his coat pocket. My hands shook as I unfolded it. At the top, in careful handwriting, were my own parents’ names, and beneath them a line that made my stomach drop: “Payment received in full.”

Before I could speak, the door opened. A nurse stepped in and whispered, “Doctor, there is a man at the front desk asking for her. He says he is her father, and he is refusing to leave.” Julian rose slowly, still holding the letter. Then he looked at me and said, “Stay here. I think he has been waiting twenty-nine years for this day too.”