Within the hour, the office doors were locked and I was sitting in a small windowless room with a cup of water I never touched. Mr. Reyes had not said another word to me. He kept checking his phone, then my face, as if waiting for someone to confirm what he already knew. My shoulder throbbed, but I barely felt it anymore.

Hours later, the door opened and a small, silver-haired woman in a gray coat stepped inside, clutching a worn envelope against her chest. She stared at me for a long time, and her eyes filled with tears. Then she slid an old photograph across the table. It showed a little boy on a porch, and he had my exact face. She touched my cheek with shaking fingers and whispered, “Your name is Caleb, and I have waited thirty years to say it.”