The Fifth of July: A New Beginning
The night before the Fourth of July, I was still in my office pretending to work. I sat alone with a cold cup of coffee, staring out the tall windows. From up there, I could see the whole city getting ready for the holiday.
Honestly, who stays late in a glass skyscraper the night before Independence Day?
Apparently, only me.
“You’re still here?” a familiar voice asked.
It was my boss, Michael, popping his head in.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. “Just catching up on emails.”
He walked in and tossed a small box onto my desk.
“Nope. Not tonight,” he said with a smirk. “You’re banned from working. Take your cookies and go watch some fireworks like a normal person.”
“Mike, I really don’t—”
“No excuses,” he interrupted. “It’s the Fourth of July. Even workaholics deserve a break.”
So I left, cookie box in hand, stepping into a half-empty city. The air was warm, soft. People had already left for the lake, backyard cookouts, rooftop parties.
My phone was full of family group photos. Kids holding sparklers, moms laughing, dads flipping burgers.
Not one photo had me in it.
I stood on the sidewalk, breathing in that lonely city air, when my phone buzzed in my pocket. A number I didn’t know.
“Hello?”
A man’s voice replied. “Hi. My name is Andrew K., I’m an attorney for Cynthia B.”
My heart stopped.
Cynthia.
The girl who used to hold my hand in the dark when we were shuffled through foster care. The one who wiped my tears when another family gave up on me.
The same Cynthia who, once grown up, got obsessed with finding her birth father and drifted away from me more every year.
She used to say, “I won’t die until I find him!”
But then… she vanished.
“Is… is Cynthia okay?” I asked, though deep down, I already knew.
“I’m afraid she passed away last week,” the man said gently. “She named you in her will. I need you to come in for the reading.”
I couldn’t move. My feet took me across the city without even realizing where I was going. Fireworks exploded in the sky above—but I couldn’t care less.
Why would Cynthia leave me anything?
And what could she have possibly left behind?
The next morning, while others were loading coolers into cars and grilling burgers, I was packing two soggy sandwiches into a beat-up backpack.
“Not exactly a feast, huh, Mr. Jenkins?” I said to my little dog, a grumpy white Spitz, sprawled out on the couch.
He gave me a look that clearly said, “You’re dragging me into something again, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I know,” I sighed, picking him up. “Me too.”
I tossed my bag in the car and sat him beside me.
“Okay, baby girl,” I whispered to the steering wheel. “Please work.”
Click. Nothing.
Second try—just a weak cough.
“Come on, don’t do this today,” I begged.
On the fourth try, the engine roared to life with a loud wheeze.
“Yes!” I cheered, patting the dashboard. “Knew you still loved me.”
It was an old car, but I bought her after saving every cent for five years. Now, we were back on the road. Just me, Mr. Jenkins, and twenty bucks of gas.
I turned on the radio. Oldies. A song I loved played halfway through.
I hummed along and drove past firework tents, American flags, and big families waving sparklers. I kept driving.
Cynthia’s funeral was tiny. Just three chairs on dried-up grass. Only three people came.
Me. Cynthia’s old foster mother, Ellen. And Cynthia’s grandma, Louise, who kept mumbling to herself and nodding off.
After the service, the lawyer walked over and handed me a thick envelope.
I hadn’t even tucked it into my purse before Ellen spoke.
“Sweetheart,” she said, voice shaking, “did you two ever really talk these past few years?”
I bit my lip. “Not much. She called sometimes. Usually from a shelter or some motel. She was always on the move.”
Ellen sniffed. “She called me once. Not too long ago. Said she found him.”
“Her father? Did she really?”
“She believed she did. Called from a shelter, coughing so hard I couldn’t understand half her words. Said she figured it out. Said it was almost done. Just one last step.”
Her hands shook around her cane.
“I told her to come home, that I’d send money, help her see a doctor… but she never made it back. The hospital called and said she was gone.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks. She glanced at the envelope sticking out of my purse.
“If there’s anything in there… anything she left behind… promise me you’ll let me know?”
“I promise,” I said quietly.
It was a lie.
I had a feeling whatever was inside that envelope—Cynthia didn’t mean it for anyone else.
I drove to the cheapest motel I could find and checked in with Mr. Jenkins still in my arms. The moment we got inside, I dropped onto the lumpy bed and stared at the envelope on the nightstand.
It sat there like it was daring me to open it.
After a shower, a walk with Mr. Jenkins, and a terrible cup of motel coffee—I finally gave in.
“Alright,” I whispered. “Let’s see what you left me, Cynthia.”
Inside the envelope was a folded letter and a plastic sleeve.
A DNA test.
I held it to the light. Numbers. Charts. A single line circled in red pen:
Siblings Confirmed.
“Oh my god…”
I stood up, pacing the tiny room.
“Did you hear that, buddy?” I told Mr. Jenkins. “I had a sister. And it was her.”
I sat back down and unfolded the letter. Cynthia’s handwriting was the same—messy, fast, full of heart.
“My dear little sister,
Yeah. I’m still in shock too.
Forgive me for disappearing. I spent so long chasing our father. He didn’t want to be found. But you know me 😏
I found out about you because of that search. We were taken into foster care as newborns. Mom died. Dad couldn’t handle it.
He asked the system to separate us—thought we’d have better luck getting adopted if we weren’t together.
Last time you left your hairbrush at my place, I sent it in. DNA doesn’t lie.
I was going to meet Dad tomorrow. But I’m sick. Gotta see a doctor first.
Come visit me soon. We have so much to catch up on.
With love,
Your sis, Cynthia.”
A photo fell out.
A young man sitting on a café bench. Two tiny babies in his arms. Scrawled at the bottom: “My girls.”
I stared at the café name printed in the corner.
“Wait… I’ve been there. That’s in the suburbs. I went there for work once!”
I looked at Mr. Jenkins.
“What if he’s still there?”
I imagined Cynthia, sick in some shelter, clinging to this picture. So close to meeting the man who let us go.
She never got the chance.
But I could.
“We’re going, buddy,” I said, gently placing the photo on my chest. “We’re gonna find him.”
I found the café. It hadn’t changed much. The owner remembered the man from the photo.
“Yeah, he lives a few streets down. Quiet guy. Keeps to himself.”
A few hours later, I stood on the porch of a small, tidy house. I clutched Mr. Jenkins close.
The door opened.
An older man stepped out. Gray hair. Tired eyes. But the same eyes from the photo.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
I took a deep breath. “I think you’re my father,” I whispered. “And I know this sounds crazy… but it’s true. Cynthia spent her life looking for you. She found out we were sisters. She found you.”
I handed him the photo.
His hands trembled.
“I remember this day,” he said softly. “I took that right after you were born. I knew I couldn’t raise you. I was drowning in grief. But I wanted one photo… just one thing to remind me I’d done something right.”
“You did love us,” I said, my voice cracking.
“With everything I had,” he said, tears in his eyes. “But it wasn’t enough. I thought giving you up was the best thing I could do. I thought you’d have better lives.”
He looked at me—really looked at me—and broke.
“I never married again. Never had more kids. I couldn’t. After losing your mother, and then you two…”
I stepped forward and hugged him. He smelled like old wood and fresh coffee. His shoulders shook beneath my hands.
“Cynthia did this,” I whispered. “She brought us back together.”
Later, we went to visit her grave. Dad knelt and placed wildflowers on the stone. He took out a photo of Mom from his wallet.
“I’ve never stopped loving her,” he said.
I touched the gravestone gently.
“She didn’t want us to stay broken,” I said. “She wanted us to be a family again.”
Dad looked at me, his eyes wet. “How do we even start over? After all these lost years?”
“We don’t think about the past,” I said, squeezing his hand. “We just build what we can now.”
Mr. Jenkins barked once, sharp and loud.
We both laughed.
“Smart dog,” Dad smiled. “So… you like barbecues?”
“Perfect,” I grinned. “Let’s go home, Dad. Let’s have our own fireworks this time.”
That night, we stood by a tiny grill in Dad’s backyard. The smell of burgers and corn filled the air. Mr. Jenkins trotted between us, tail wagging.
And for the first time ever, I didn’t feel like I was missing something on the Fourth of July.
Because now… I had someone to come home to.
