The grief was a suffocating blanket, but the funeral felt like a performance. As I stood by the urn of the only man I ever called “Dad,” strangers offered hollow platitudes about how much Michael loved me. He was 78, a man of grease-stained hands and quiet strength who had raised me since I was two. My mother, Carina, had died when I was four, leaving Michael to navigate pigtails and parent-teacher conferences alone. I never questioned our life—he was my father in every way that mattered.

But at his service, a man named Frank leaned in and whispered words that shattered my world: “Check the bottom drawer in your stepfather’s garage.”

That night, the house felt haunted by Michael’s aftershave and wood polish. In the garage, the air was thick with cedar and motor oil. The bottom drawer of his workbench groaned as I forced it open. Inside sat a manila folder and a sealed envelope with my name, Clover, written in his sturdy handwriting.....