When I unfolded it, my heart stopped. The address written in careful handwriting was 4782 Maple Grove Lane, my childhood home, the house where Dad raised me until that terrible year when everything changed.
I sat in that executive office for 20 minutes, just staring at the wallet in my hands. $10,000. The bills were crisp and new, like they’d come straight from the bank.
I did the math in my head automatically. Four months of rent. The transmission repair for my truck that I’d been putting off. The dental work I needed but couldn’t afford. Maybe even a small headstone upgrade for Janelle’s grave, something better than the flat marker I could barely manage.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Part of me wanted to stuff the wallet in my pocket and walk out like nothing happened. Who carries $10,000 in cash anyway? Drug dealers. Tax evaders. People who wouldn’t dare report it missing.
The security cameras on this floor had been broken for months, according to Terrence. Nobody would ever know.
But then I heard my father’s voice in my head, clear as if he was standing right beside me. «Character is what you do when nobody’s watching, Reuben.» He told me that when I was 12 and found a $20 bill at the grocery store. Made me turn it in to customer service, even though I wanted to buy that new video game all my friends had.
«Sleep comes easy when your conscience is clear, son.»
The address changed everything though: 4782 Maple Grove Lane. I hadn’t thought about that house in years. Trained myself not to. But seeing it written there brought everything flooding back.
The maple tree in the front yard where dad built me a tire swing. The basement where he taught me to use tools. The kitchen where mom made blueberry pancakes every Sunday until she didn’t anymore.
We left that house when I was eight, right after mom disappeared. One day, she was there. The next day, dad was packing our things into boxes, his face like stone.
«Your mother’s gone, Reuben. She’s not coming back.» That’s all he ever said about it.
We moved to a cramped apartment across town, and he sold the house within a week. Never explained why we had to leave so fast. Never explained why mom left. Never explained anything.
I pulled out my phone and called my cousin Meredith before I could stop myself. She lived in Chicago now, but kept track of all the family history. Had one of those ancestry accounts and everything. If anyone would know about someone with the initials CT, it would be her.
«Reuben?» she sounded surprised. «It’s almost midnight, is everything okay?»
«Hey Mary, quick question. You ever heard of someone with initials CT in our family?»
The silence on the other end stretched so long I thought the call had dropped. «Why are you asking about this?» Her voice had changed, gotten careful.
«Just curious, found something at work with those initials.»
«Reuben, your father had a brother, Clifton. But Dennis always said he died before you were born. Car accident out in California.»
My throat went dry. «You sure he died?»
«That’s what your father told everyone. Made a big deal about being an only child after that. Said it was too painful to talk about. I only know because my mom mentioned it once when she’d had too much wine at Christmas.»
«She said it was strange how there were no funeral arrangements. No obituary. Nothing. Just Dennis’ word that Clifton was gone.»
«Did you ever meet him, Clifton?»
«No, nobody did. He was already dead by the time I was born. Reuben, what’s this about? You’re scaring me.»
I hung up without answering. My father never lied to me, not once in 30 years. When my goldfish died, he didn’t tell me it went to a farm upstate.
When I asked if mom was coming back, he didn’t give me false hope. He was honest, even when it hurt. So why would he lie about a brother?
The next morning, instead of turning in the wallet to building security like I should have, I drove to Maple Grove Lane. My shift ended at 6 AM, and by 6:30 AM I was parked outside my childhood home.
The neighborhood looked frozen in time. Mrs. Rodriguez still had the same garden gnomes, just more weathered. The Patterson’s house still had that ugly green trim, just more faded. But 4782 looked different.
New windows with expensive frames, fresh paint in a color mom would have called sophisticated gray. The tire swing was gone, replaced by professional landscaping. Someone with money lived there now. Someone with the initials CT who kept $10,000 in cash like it was pocket change.
I sat in my truck for ten minutes, engine running, arguing with myself. Return the wallet and get answers, or drive away and pretend I never found it. Finally, I grabbed the wallet, walked up the pathway I’d run down a thousand times as a kid, and knocked on the door of my childhood home.
«Hold on, hold on,» a voice called from inside, and my stomach dropped. The voice was familiar in a way that made no sense, like hearing a recording of yourself that you don’t remember making. Footsteps approached, measured and heavy, the same rhythm as my father’s walk.
The door opened, and I nearly fell backward off the porch. The man who answered was me, but aged 20 years into the future. Same nose that curved slightly left from when I broke it playing baseball. Same scar above the right eyebrow from falling off my bike.
Same hands that were just a little too large for the arms, what Janelle used to call my «puppy paws» when we first started dating. His hair was gray where mine was still black. Lines creased his face where mine was still smooth, but looking at him was like staring into a time machine mirror.
We stood there frozen, both of us trying to process the impossible. His face went through a series of expressions: confusion, recognition, shock, and then something that looked like grief.
«Dear God,» he whispered, gripping the doorframe with both hands. «Reuben, you’re Reuben Thorn?»
«How do you know my name?»
His eyes filled with tears that he didn’t try to hide. «Because I’m Clifton, Clifton Thorn, your uncle, your father’s twin brother.»
Twin brother? The words hit me like physical blows. Dad never mentioned a twin, never mentioned any siblings at all. In 30 years, not one single mention of having an identical brother walking around in the world.
«You’re supposed to be dead,» I said, my voice sounding strange and distant. «Car accident in California, before I was born.»
«In a way, I was.» He stepped aside, gesturing for me to come in. «Please come inside. You have my wallet?»
I held it up, still trying to reconcile this man’s face with the lies I’d been told. «$10,000, just carrying that around?»
«My office. I’m the CFO at Meridian. See, Mitchell is my professional name.» He laughed, but there was no humor in it. «Small world, right? Dennis’ boy cleaning my office. If that’s not cosmic intervention, I don’t know what is.»
I followed him inside my childhood home that wasn’t my home anymore. Everything was different. The walls Mom painted yellow were now stark white. The carpet where I played with toy cars was replaced with hardwood.
