My stepmom raised me after my Dad passed away when I was 6 — years later, I found the letter he wrote the night before his death.

I’d stare at my reflection.

“Do I look like him?” I asked Meredith one evening as she washed dishes.

“You have his eyes,” she said.

“And her?”

She dried her hands slowly. “Her dimples. And that curly hair.”

There was a careful tone in her voice—like she was measuring every word.

That unease followed me to the attic later that night. I went looking for the old photo album. It used to sit on a shelf in the living room, but it had disappeared years ago. Meredith had said she stored it to keep the photos from fading.

I found it in a dusty box.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I flipped through pictures of my dad when he was young. He looked carefree.

In one photo, he held my biological mother.

“Hi,” I whispered to the image. It felt silly—and right.

Then I turned the page.

There was a photo of Dad outside the hospital, cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in pale fabric. Me.

He looked terrified and proud at the same time.

I wanted that photo.

As I gently slid it from its sleeve, something else slipped out—a folded sheet of paper.

My name was written on the front in Dad’s handwriting.

My fingers trembled as I unfolded it.

It was dated the day before he died.