I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.

business card embossed with gold lettering. “I represent the estate of James Brooks. Your grandfather.”

I shook my head, certain I was hallucinating from hunger. “I don’t have a grandfather. My father said he died before I was born.”

“Your father lied.” Richard said it simply, without judgment, like he was stating a fact about the

weather. “James Brooks was very much alive until twenty-three days ago. He spent the last fifteen years of his life trying to find you, and when he finally did six months ago, he immediately