PART 2
The stranger stopped a few feet away from me.
For one long moment, neither of us spoke.
He was older than my father by several years, though there was something familiar in the shape of his face—the same strong jaw, the same deep-set eyes, the same slight crease between his eyebrows. He wore a gray jacket despite the heat, and one hand gripped the folder against his side as if it contained something fragile.
His gaze moved from me to the paper in my hand.
“Matthew,” he said quietly. “You look just like him.”
I had heard adults say that before. Teachers had told me I had my father’s smile. Neighbors had said my eyes were exactly like his. But coming from this man, it felt different.
Maybe because he was the first person who had ever looked at me as if seeing my father in my face hurt.
“Are you Gabriel?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I’m your uncle.”
The word felt strange. I had never had an uncle before, at least not one I remembered. My father had rarely spoken about his family. When I was younger, I assumed that meant they lived far away. Later, I began to suspect there had been some disagreement between them.
I had never imagined that a part of my father’s life had been standing somewhere beyond our house, waiting for me to find it.
Gabriel glanced toward the small white house behind me.
“Is Rosa here?”
“She’s inside,” I said.
He gave a short nod, but before he could move, Rosa opened the front door.
“You must be Gabriel,” she said.
“I am. And you must be Rosa.” His expression softened. “Thank you for taking care of Matthew.”
Rosa looked toward me.
“He needed someone.”
Gabriel’s eyes lowered for a moment. “Yes. He did.”
The three of us went inside. Rosa had made coffee, although I doubted any of us wanted it. She placed a glass of lemonade in front of me and then sat across from Gabriel at the kitchen table. I remained standing, my fingers wrapped around the paper with his number on it.
I wasn’t sure whether I was afraid of Gabriel or afraid of what he might tell me.
He set the folder on the table but didn’t open it immediately.
“Before we discuss your father’s documents,” he said, “I want you to understand something. You are not being sent away again.”
The words were simple, but they reached somewhere inside me that I had been trying not to look at.
I stared at him.
“I don’t know you.”
“I know.”
“You might change your mind.”
His face tightened, not with anger, but with regret.
“I might make mistakes. I might not know what you need. But I am not going to leave you on the side of a road.”
Rosa leaned forward and placed her hand over mine.
Gabriel continued, “Your father asked me to help you if anything happened to him. He should have told you about me long before now. I’m sorry he didn’t.”
“Why didn’t he?”
Gabriel looked down at the folder.
“That is complicated.”
“Everything seems complicated.”
“I know.”
His answer was so calm that it made my chest ache.
I sat beside Rosa. Gabriel opened the folder and removed several packets of paper, each marked with a colored tab. There were official-looking forms, copies of bank statements, and a thick document bearing a seal.
“This is a certified copy of your father’s last will,” he said.
I looked at the papers without understanding most of the words.
“Veronica said the whole estate belonged to her.”
“She was wrong.”
Gabriel turned the first page toward me.
“Your father changed his will six months before he died. He left Veronica the right to remain in the house for as long as she needed, along with a monthly income. But the house, the company, his investments, and the majority of his assets were placed in a trust for you.”
I looked at Rosa.
She was reading over Gabriel’s shoulder, her expression growing more serious with every line.
“Me?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“You were ten years old. He had hoped to live long enough to explain everything when you were older.”
I looked at the signature at the bottom of the page.
Alexander Hale.
My father’s name.
The handwriting was unmistakable. I had seen it on permission slips, birthday cards, and notes he left in my lunch bag. The letters leaned slightly to the right, as if they were always hurrying toward the next word.
My throat tightened.
“Does this mean I own everything?”
Gabriel shook his head gently.
“It means your father wanted to protect you. The trust is managed by adults until you reach the age specified in the documents. That does not mean you are expected to run a company or make decisions about property. It means no one can simply take what he left for you.”
“Can Veronica take it?”
“Not legally.”
The word legally did not comfort me as much as Gabriel seemed to hope it would.
“She said she had a will.”
“She may have found an older one. Or she may have misunderstood the documents. Your father’s final will was signed in the presence of witnesses and notarized. I have the original stored safely.”