Imani lined the photographs across the kitchen table.
Three children. Three different homes.
The same woman stood beside each of them.
Imani recognized the woman as the stranger who had sent the envelope.
Her foster parents watched from the counter.
“She says they’re my brothers.”
Her foster mother, June, sat down.
“We need to check everything carefully.”
“Did you know about them?”
“We knew there might be siblings.”
“Might be?”
Imani pushed the letter toward her.
Names. Birth dates. A telephone number.
Her foster father pulled out the chair opposite.
“We asked when you first came. The information was incomplete.”
“Did you ask again?”
Neither answered quickly enough.
The phone on the table began to ring.
The caller’s name matched the signature on the letter.
Imani looked at June.
“Don’t answer for me.”
June withdrew her hand.
The woman on the phone was a former foster carer. She had kept photographs with permission and had recently been contacted by the oldest boy, now an adult, looking for his sisters and brothers.
She offered to help them contact the appropriate people and verify the connection.
Imani listened without speaking.
Afterward, she turned the photographs facedown.
“I can’t do all of this today.”
“Then we won’t,” June said.
It took several weeks before Imani agreed to a video call.
She changed her shirt twice and nearly canceled.
When the screen connected, the older boy looked as frightened as she felt.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
Behind him, a younger boy leaned into view.
“Ask her if she hates peas.”
The older boy closed his eyes.
“That wasn’t the first question.”
Imani laughed.
Both boys stared, then laughed with her.
Outside the room, June waited with a plate of biscuits.
She didn’t interrupt when the call ran past dinner.
End of Narrative
