At my father’s funeral, my brother stood up in front of everyone and announced he planned to sell our family home to cover his $340,000 gambling debt. My mother simply nodded, as if it made perfect sense.

On the fourth night, I passed the kitchen and heard Marcus on the phone, his voice tight with panic. “I know, I know. Just give me until after this week. I’ll have the money. The house is as good as sold.”

He saw me, ended the call, and said, “Work stuff.”

He hadn’t worked in eight months.

I didn’t argue. I went downstairs to my father’s office in the basement, needing paper, numbers, order—something solid enough to hold while my thoughts tried to settle. In the second cabinet, inside a folder labeled IMPORTANT DOCUMENTS, I found my birth certificate, old baby photos, and a single sheet of paper on letterhead I didn’t recognize:

Farwell Family Holdings LLC.

It was dated 2009.

My name appeared in the body of the document. At the bottom was my own signature—young, looping, unmistakable. And suddenly I remembered. Dad had called me home that year after college and asked me to sign some “administrative business stuff.” I had trusted him enough not to ask questions.

I slipped the document into my purse just as my mother’s voice drifted down from the top of the basement stairs.

“Briana? What are you doing in your father’s files?”

I told her I was looking for insurance papers.