“A Sister’s Final Gift”
The night before the Fourth of July, I sat in my office, pretending I had work to do. I wasn’t working, really — just sitting there, staring out the tall glass windows with a mug of cold coffee in my hands. The city was quiet. Everyone else had already left to celebrate with fireworks and family.
“You’re still here?” a voice called from the doorway.
It was my boss, Michael, with his usual amused smirk.
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just catching up on emails.”
“Nope. Not tonight.” He tossed a small box onto my desk. “Your cookies. Take them and go. You’re banned from working tonight and tomorrow.”
“Mike, I really don’t—”
“No excuses. It’s Independence Day. Even you deserve it.”
With that, he vanished down the hall, leaving me no choice but to pack up. I walked out of the office with the box of cookies and stepped into the nearly empty street. Warm air brushed against my face.
Everyone else was already out — by the lake, lighting sparklers, grilling burgers with family. My phone was buzzing with photos from relatives I hadn’t seen in ages, smiling together without me.
I felt alone in a city full of strangers.
Then my phone buzzed again. A number I didn’t recognize lit up the screen.
“Hello?”
“My name is Andrew K. I’m an attorney representing Cynthia B.”
My heart dropped. Cynthia.
Cynthia had been my foster sister — the one who used to hold my hand when we were scared at night, the one who’d sneak cookies into my blanket fort. We were separated, then reunited, then lost touch all over again. She spent most of her adult life chasing a dream: to find her birth father.
“I… is Cynthia okay?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“I’m afraid she passed away last week,” he said gently. “She named you in her will. I’ll need you to come in for the reading.”
I stood frozen in the lobby of my building. Fireworks began popping outside, but I didn’t look. Why would Cynthia leave anything to me? What could she possibly have wanted me to find?
The next morning, the city buzzed with celebration. Kids tugged coolers across sidewalks, families packed SUVs. Meanwhile, I stood in my apartment packing two sad sandwiches into my backpack.
“Not exactly a holiday feast, huh, Mr. Jenkins?” I said.
My little Spitz lifted his head and blinked at me from the couch.
“Alright, Your Majesty. Let’s go.”
He let out a tiny grumble, clearly not thrilled.
“Yeah, me neither,” I muttered as I lifted him and tossed the backpack in the passenger seat.
“Okay, baby,” I whispered to the car. “Come on, just one more trip.”
The engine clicked. Then nothing.
“Don’t do this to me.”
Click. Cough. Silence.
“Please. Just once more.”
Then — a sputter, a wheeze, and the engine finally turned over.
“Ha! Knew you still loved me,” I said, patting the dashboard like an old friend.
I pulled out of the parking lot. Just me, my dog, a twenty-dollar tank of gas, and a promise to an old friend who was gone.
Cynthia’s funeral was tiny — almost too small. Just three people: her old foster mom Ellen, her elderly grandmother Louise, and me. I stood there holding Mr. Jenkins while the summer sun beat down on the folding chairs.
After the service, the lawyer handed me an envelope.
Before I could even look at it, Ellen shuffled toward me, leaning heavily on her cane.
“Sweetheart,” she said, voice soft and cracked. “Did you two still talk? These last few years?”
“Not much,” I admitted. “She called sometimes. Always from a new place… a motel, a shelter. It was hard to keep track.”
“She called me once,” Ellen whispered. “Said she found him. Her father. Said it was almost over. That she’d figured it all out.”
I swallowed hard. “Did she really find him?”
“She thought she did.” Ellen’s hands shook. “She was sick. Real sick. Called me, coughing so hard I could barely understand her. Pneumonia, I think. I told her to come home. I begged her. But she just kept saying, ‘It’s almost done.’”
Then, tears welled in her eyes. “And then the hospital called.”
A sob broke through her words. “My girl was gone.”
She looked at the envelope in my hand. “If you find something… anything that explains, promise me you’ll tell me, alright?”
“I promise,” I said, even though I already knew the truth. If Cynthia found something, it wasn’t meant for anyone else. Just me.
That night, I checked into a cheap motel. Mr. Jenkins jumped on the bed and immediately claimed the pillow. I stared at the envelope sitting on the nightstand like it was glowing.
“Alright, Cynthia,” I said, ripping it open. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Inside was a folded letter and a plastic sleeve.
A DNA test result.
I stared at the red ink circled across the middle: Siblings confirmed.
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered. “You weren’t kidding.”
Mr. Jenkins perked up as I paced the room.
“I’ve got a sister,” I said aloud. “And it’s her.”
The letter was in Cynthia’s handwriting — messy and fast, just like always.
“My dear little sister — yeah, I’m still in shock too.
I’m sorry I drifted away. I spent so many years chasing Dad, and it wasn’t easy. He didn’t want to be found. But you know me. 😏
While I was searching, I found out about you. We were both brought into foster care after Mom died. Dad was too heartbroken to care for us. He asked them to separate us — he thought it’d make it easier for families to adopt us.
I tested your hairbrush. DNA doesn’t lie.
I’m supposed to meet Dad tomorrow. I’m sick, but I’ll go to the doctor first. I’m coming back soon, and you better visit me.
With love,
Your sis,
Cynthia.”
I blinked away tears, but they spilled anyway. Fat drops smudged the ink. I flipped the letter over and a photo fell into my lap.
A young man sat on a café bench, holding two tiny babies.
Scrawled at the bottom: My girls.
I recognized the café. I’d been there once, years ago, for a work meeting. It was in a quiet little suburb. I gasped.
“What if he’s still there?” I whispered.
Cynthia didn’t get to meet him — but maybe I still could.
“We’re going, Mr. Jenkins,” I said, grabbing the photo. “We’re going to find him.”
The café owner remembered the man right away.
“Old Pete?” he said, wiping a table. “He still lives two blocks away. Real quiet. Keeps to himself.”
And that’s how I ended up standing in front of a small, worn-down house, clutching Mr. Jenkins and the photo like a lifeline.
The door creaked open.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
His hair was mostly gray now, but the eyes — those were the same ones in the photo.
“I… I think you’re my father,” I said, voice shaking. “Cynthia was my sister. She found you. She left me this.”
I handed him the photo.
He stared at it for a long time.
“I remember this day,” he said softly. “I took that photo the day you girls came home from the hospital. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep you. I was falling apart. But I wanted something to remember that I tried.”
“You did love us, didn’t you?” I asked.
“With everything I had,” he whispered. “But I thought you’d be better off with new families. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I never stopped loving your mother. Never married again. Never moved on. Losing you girls… it broke me.”
I stepped forward and hugged him. He smelled like old books and coffee. His arms were shaky, but warm.
“Cynthia did this,” I whispered. “She brought us back together.”
Later that day, we visited her grave together. He brought a photo of Mom. I brought wildflowers.
“I’ve never stopped loving her,” he said.
“I think Cynthia knew that,” I replied. “She didn’t want us to be alone anymore.”
“How do we start over?” he asked. “After all these lost years?”
“We don’t think about the years we lost,” I said. “We build what we never had.”
Mr. Jenkins barked sharply, like he agreed.
My father laughed through tears. “Smart dog. So… how do you feel about barbecues?”
I smiled. “Perfect. Let’s go home, Dad.”
That night, we grilled burgers in the backyard, with the smell of corn and smoke in the air.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t alone on the Fifth of July.
For the first time, I had a real family.