Chapter 6 - THE BROTHER WHO WAS MY GRANDFATHER
For several seconds, I stared at the birth certificate without blinking.
Farid Rahal.
The man everyone believed had died in a warehouse explosion.
The man Kareem had spent decades grieving.
The man Grandma warned me about.
According to the document, he was my mother's father.
Which meant he was my grandfather.
And Kareem Rahal was my great-uncle.
My hands trembled so badly that Layla took the phone.
She studied the document.
Then looked at me.
"Nia, we need to verify this."
I nodded.
I wanted to believe the certificate was real.
But after everything that had happened, I was beginning to understand that documents could be manipulated.
Kareem arrived twenty minutes later.
Layla showed him the email.
He stared at the screen.
Then lowered himself into a chair.
"Farid had a daughter?"
His voice cracked.
"My brother had a child?"
I watched tears gather in his eyes.
He looked at me.
"Nia, how old was your mother when she died?"
"Twenty-six."
"What happened?"
"A car accident."
Kareem closed his eyes.
"Another accident."
The words chilled me.
"What do you mean?"
He looked at me.
"My brother died in an explosion. Samira disappeared. Your mother died in a car accident."
He paused.
"Too many tragedies surrounding the same family."
I remembered Grandma's silence whenever I asked about my mother's death.
The way she avoided certain questions.
The way she once told me:
"Sometimes bad people don't stop hurting a family until someone finally tells the truth."
Kareem leaned forward.
"Would you agree to independent DNA testing?"
I hesitated.
"Would it help?"
"Yes."
I nodded.
"Then let's do it."
He arranged the test through an accredited laboratory with proper consent.
Meanwhile, Omar continued investigating the brass key.
By morning, he'd discovered something extraordinary.
The key matched a private archival storage system once used by the Rahal shipping company.
A warehouse in Brooklyn had been converted into a commercial records facility.
Its old inventory logs listed one sealed compartment under Farid's name.
Compartment 417.
We traveled there with an attorney and a security team.
The building smelled of old paper and machine oil.
A manager checked the historical records.
Then stared at the key.
"This account hasn't been accessed in thirty-eight years."
Kareem looked at me.
"Would you like to open it?"
I nodded.
My hand shook as I inserted the key.
The lock clicked.
Inside was a metal case.
A photograph.
Several envelopes.
And an audio cassette.
The photograph showed Grandma holding a newborn baby.
Beside her stood Farid Rahal.
He was smiling.
And on the back, in Grandma's handwriting, were six words.
Farid with our daughter, Amina. 1985.
My eyes filled with tears.
Kareem covered his face.
"My brother."
Then Omar opened one of the envelopes.
Inside was a handwritten statement.
Farid had signed it.
May you like
The first sentence made everyone freeze.
"If I disappear, my brother Kareem must never know that I am alive."
