Me.

The problem was that the adoption had never been finalized through normal court channels.

There was paperwork.

There were old hospital records.

But there were enough gaps that Dad wanted undeniable proof before telling me anything.

That explained the documents.

It also explained the test.

Dad had submitted a DNA sample.

Eleanor had left one with her attorney before she died.

The result was conclusive.

I was Eleanor Mercer’s biological son.

I lowered the letter.

“What exactly did she leave me?”

Priya opened another file.

“A house in Marsh Hollow. No mortgage.”

I said nothing.

“A savings account containing a little over sixty thousand dollars.”

Then she paused.

“And personal belongings.”

“That’s everything?”

“There’s one more thing.”

She looked at me carefully.

“A box of letters.”

“Letters?”

“Your biological mother wrote one to you every year on your birthday beginning when you turned eighteen.”

My chest tightened.

“She never mailed them.”

Priya explained that the letters had been found in a drawer beside Eleanor’s bed.

A woman I had never known had spent years writing to me.

Year after year.

Knowing she couldn’t send a single page.