The night before the funeral, I couldn’t sleep, so I went downstairs to Dad’s office in the basement and began sorting through his files.

It was the kind of task I’m good at—quiet, orderly, methodical. Something to keep my hands moving while my mind tried to settle.

The first filing cabinet held years of tax returns and household records.

The second contained photographs, report cards, and a folder marked IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS.

Inside, I found my birth certificate, a few baby pictures, and a single sheet of paper with a business letterhead I didn’t recognize.

Farwell Family Holdings LLC.
Dated 2009.

I stared at it.

The wording was dense, legal, and formal. My own name appeared in the body of the document. At the bottom was my signature—young, loopy, unmistakably mine.

Then I remembered.

Dad had called me home that year and asked me to sign some paperwork. “Administrative business stuff,” he’d said. “Nothing important.”

I had just finished college. I was still trusting enough to sign where he pointed.

Then I forgot all about it.

Until now.

I slipped the document into my purse.

The next morning, when I showed it to Mom and mentioned the company name, she dismissed it with a wave.