I was five years old.
My hands shook as I unfolded the letter beneath the photograph.
It was from Richard.
My dear Nora,
If you’re reading this, I’m gone.
I’m sorry I kept the truth from you.
Richard explained everything.
Decades earlier, he had helped fund and renovate the very shelter where I had spent part of my childhood.
He had visited the shelter.
And one day, he had held a frightened little girl in his arms.
Me.
Years later, when I told him which shelter I had grown up in, he recognized me.
That’s why I’d seemed familiar when we first met.
But there was more.
He had overheard my conversation with my landlord.
He knew I was about to lose my home.
And he knew my pride would never allow me to simply accept charity.
So he found another way to protect me.
He offered me a family.
