When the lawyer finished reading the will, I didn’t expect much to be left for me. My father had always been practical, meticulous, a man who believed in fairness but not sentimentality. The house would go to my mother. The business to my brother. And me? I assumed I’d get nothing more than memories.
So when the lawyer handed me a worn, leather-bound Bible, I almost laughed. A Bible. My father hadn’t set foot in a church in years, except for weddings and funerals. The cover was cracked, the gold lettering faded, pages yellowed with time. “He wanted you to have this,” the lawyer said, his voice careful.
I held it awkwardly, nodding, trying to mask my confusion. Everyone else was receiving houses, accounts, assets. I got an old book.
Back at home, I placed it on my nightstand. For hours, I just stared at it, refusing to open it. What was I supposed to find? Comfort? Scripture? My father hadn’t been a man of God; he’d been a man of secrets, the kind who kept receipts locked in drawers and a second cell phone he thought no one knew about.
Finally, late that night, I picked it up. The smell of old paper rose to meet me, oddly soothing. As I flipped through the fragile pages, something slipped out. A folded slip of paper tucked between Psalms and Proverbs. My breath caught.
I unfolded it with shaking hands. It was my father’s handwriting.
“My dearest Anna,
If you’re reading this, then I am gone. This Bible isn’t about faith. It’s about truth. For years, I kept something hidden from the family, something I never had the courage to speak aloud. Inside the back cover, you’ll find an envelope. What you do with it is up to you. Know this: I loved you, always. —Dad”
My fingers trembled as I turned to the back cover. Sure enough, taped to the inside was a small envelope, yellowed with age. I hesitated, staring at it, the weight of choice pressing down on me. Did I even want to know?
I tore it open. Inside was a photograph. My father, years younger, standing with a woman I didn’t recognize. She had auburn hair, kind eyes, and was holding a little boy on her hip. A boy who looked eerily like me at that age.
Beneath the photo was another letter.
“Her name is Clara. The boy is Samuel. He is your brother. I wanted to be part of his life, but I was too much of a coward to live honestly. I provided what I could, quietly, but I never acknowledged him the way I should have. I am ashamed. I don’t know if Clara will ever forgive me, but I hope one day, you might. If you choose, you can find them. The address is written on the back of the photo. Please, don’t hate me. I did love you, even if I was weak.”
I stared at the photograph until tears blurred the edges. A brother. I had a brother. Somewhere out there was another child who carried my father’s blood, who had grown up in the shadow of his silence.
Sleep was impossible. My mind spun with questions. Did my mother know? Did my brother know? Should I tell them? Should I pretend I’d never found the letter at all?
The next morning, I slipped the photo into my purse. I couldn’t bring myself to show my mother. She was already hollow from grief, her eyes red and swollen, her voice gone quiet. To tell her now would be like setting fire to the ashes still warm from his death.
Instead, I drove. Hours down winding back roads until I found the house. A small white bungalow with a rusted swing set in the yard. I sat in my car, clutching the photograph, my heart pounding. And then the door opened. A woman stepped out. Older now, but unmistakably the woman in the photo. Behind her, a teenage boy followed, laughing at something she said. My breath caught. He looked so much like my father it hurt.
I didn’t get out of the car. I couldn’t. I just sat there, watching, until they disappeared inside. Then I drove away, tears blinding me.
Back home, I placed the Bible back on my nightstand. To everyone else, it was just an old book. To me, it was a bombshell, a doorway to a life I wasn’t sure I wanted to open.
I still haven’t told my mother. I still haven’t told my brother. Sometimes, late at night, I take out the photo and trace the boy’s face with my fingertip, wondering if he knows I exist. Wondering if he hates my father, or if he loved him anyway. Wondering if I’ll ever have the courage to knock on that door.
Final Thought
Not every inheritance is gold or property. Sometimes it’s truth, wrapped in leather and paper, waiting to change everything you thought you knew. My father left me a Bible, but what I really inherited was the burden of his silence—and the choice of whether to carry it or break it.
