I drove the shovel into the soil. It yielded more easily than I’d expected.
Within minutes, the blade struck something solid—metallic and dull beneath years of rain and roots.
I dropped to my knees, hands trembling, and unearthed a box. It was rusted, weighty, older than anything I owned.
Brushing off the dirt with numb fingers, I lifted the latch.
Inside, wrapped in yellowed tissue, was a small envelope bearing my name. Beneath it lay a photograph of a man in his thirties cradling a newborn under the harsh glow of hospital lights.
A faded blue hospital bracelet rested beside it, my birth name printed clearly in block letters.
My vision narrowed.
I sank down into the dirt, gripping the photograph.
“No… no. That’s not… that’s me?!”
With shaking hands, I grabbed the letter and tore it open.
“My darling Tanya,
If you’re reading this, it means I’ve left this world before telling you the truth myself.
I didn’t abandon you. I was removed. Your mother was young, and my own mistakes were many. Her family thought they knew best.
But I am your father.