And the original copy of my dad’s will.

The envelope felt heavier than it should have as I held it in my hands. Mom sat across from me at the kitchen table, her fingers wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone cold. She watched me carefully, like she was waiting for some kind of reaction but didn’t know what to expect.

“Mom,” I said slowly, turning the envelope over in my hands, “why does this have Rylan’s name on it?”

She sighed deeply, leaning back in her chair. For a moment, she looked so small, so fragile, like the weight of whatever secret she’d been carrying was pressing down on her all at once. “Open it,” she said softly. “You’ll understand.”

So I did.

The letter inside wasn’t long—just a single page written in Dad’s unmistakable scrawl. It started simply: To my son Rylan, and already my stomach twisted into knots. Why would Dad write to Rylan instead of me? Or Mom? Or both of us?