“Call him,” I whispered.
Noah took out his phone.
His father answered after three rings.
Even from several feet away, I recognized the voice.
Older.
Deeper.
But familiar.
Noah asked, “Dad, where did you get Grandpa’s necklace?”
There was a long silence.
Then Noah said, “I’m at Tyler’s house. His mom says she knows it.”
He gave his father my name.
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“Diane.”
The silence on the other end lasted so long I thought the call had dropped.
Then I heard one word.
“Diane?”
My eyes filled with tears.
Twenty-one years had passed, and my brother still remembered my name.
Noah handed me the phone.
I finally took it.
“Michael?”
His breathing changed.
“Diane.”
“You’re alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
Those were the first words my missing brother said to me after 21 years.
But then came another shocking realization.
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Noah wasn’t just Michael’s son.
He was my nephew.
And that meant Noah and Tyler were cousins.
