***I grew up in foster care believing my father had disappeared from my life. Then a lawyer told me Thomas was rich, dying, and asking for seven days with me. I stayed. After his funeral, the lawyer found me packing my bags, slid an envelope across the table, and said, “You walked right into his trap.”***
The sole of my shoe came loose while I was standing in my kitchen.
I heard the faint flap against the tile and looked down.
“Seriously?”
The shoe was old, but not ruined.
There had always been a difference to me.
I found a tube of adhesive beneath the sink, sat at the kitchen table, and carefully worked glue around the loose edge.
***Clean it first.***
***Press firmly.***
***Wait.***
Some habits survive childhood because they’re practical.
Others stay because your body remembers things your mind would rather forget.
I was holding the sole in place when three sharp knocks sounded at my door.
I wiped the glue from my fingers and opened it.
A man in an expensive dark suit stood outside.
“Are you Susan?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
He introduced himself as David, an attorney.
For one panicked second, I assumed something had gone wrong with my rent or taxes.
Then he said, “I represent your father.”
I laughed.
“I don’t have one.”
His expression remained steady.
“His name is Thomas.”
I stared at him.
For years, I’d wondered whether my father was dead, gone, or simply someone nobody wanted to discuss.
Now he suddenly had a name.
My hand tightened around the door.
“Wrong Susan.”
“No.”
I started to close it.
Before the latch caught, David said, “Your mother’s name was Annie.”
I froze.
“Thomas has been trying to find you,” he continued.
“Trying?”
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