The director’s office was quiet and orderly, and she asked me to sit, and on the desk between us she placed a heavy, sealed envelope, thick and cream-colored, my name written across the front in an elegant, shaking hand I did not recognize but somehow already knew.

My stomach tightened into a knot.

“Before she died,” the director said softly, folding her hands, “Nora left one last request for you.” I stared at the envelope.

I could not make my hands move toward it.

And then the director said the thing that stopped the breath in my chest, said it kindly, plainly, without any accusation at all.

“She knew you weren’t her son, Julian.” She let that settle.