I never knew my biological parents. They didn’t just leave me – they made it clear in the paperwork they wanted nothing to do with me. I grew up in foster care, wondering why I wasn’t worth keeping.

That question shaped my whole life. I worked nonstop, trying to build something out of nothing, but stability always felt out of reach. Then one day, everything changed. I got a call from a man claiming to be my biological father’s lawyer.

He told me my father had died and left me his farm – 30 kilometers out of town. I’d never even heard his name before. When I confirmed it was real, I packed my bags and left. But as I stood at the gate of that farm, one question wouldn’t leave my mind: “If he’s gone… where is my mother?

The farm was old but well-maintained, with a weathered white house standing at the end of a gravel driveway. The fields stretched endlessly, golden and swaying in the wind. I should have felt something – anger, sadness, maybe even relief. But all I felt was confusion.

The lawyer had left me the keys, so I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The scent of wood polish and something faintly herbal filled the air. It looked like someone had lived here recently. There were dishes in the sink, a coffee cup on the counter, and boots by the door.

Had my father really been alone before he died? Or had someone else been living here?

As I explored, I found an office stacked with papers. Folders labeled “taxes” and “harvest records” cluttered the desk. And then, tucked inside a drawer, I found an envelope with my name on it.