The heavy stillness that follows a funeral had shifted into something else: a trembling quiet.

I sat at the kitchen table with tea that had gone cold.

Beside my mug lay the DNA report, a stack of Julian’s baby photos, and a small wooden box he had left in his bedroom closet.

I opened that box an hour after Chloe left.

Inside were printed photographs a lawyer had forwarded to him every month for five years: a baby taking first steps, a toddler in a yellow raincoat, a girl smiling with a gap in her front teeth.

Beneath the photos was a letter addressed to me, sealed, my name in his hasty cursive.