The lawyer nodded once, silently urging me: Read it.

I scanned the chapel. Everyone expected the usual drama about money, inheritance, and greed. They weren’t prepared for what came next.

I steadied my voice and continued aloud:

“Your father is not who he claims to be. In 1994, he changed his identity after a financial crime investigation and assumed the Sterling name illegally.”

A ripple of shock spread through the crowd—half gasp, half whisper.

My uncle leapt to his feet, chair scraping the floor. “That’s insane!” he shouted.

The letter went on:

“He married into this family under false pretenses. He forged documents to access family property and used intimidation to silence anyone who questioned him. I kept copies of everything.”

My hands trembled. The proof was laid out neatly behind the letter: court filings, name-change records, bank statements, a sworn private investigator’s report—the kind of evidence that doesn’t care about denial.

My father jumped up, shouting, “Stop! This is a lie! She was sick, paranoid—”

The lawyer’s voice cut in sharply. “Sir, please sit. These documents are verified.”

My father’s face twisted with rage, panic, and humiliation. Then the most chilling line appeared, and my chest tightened:

“The worst part is not what he stole. It’s what he buried.”

I swallowed hard and read on:

“In 1998, a child was born into this family. That child disappeared within weeks. Your father knows why—and so does your mother.”