“You,” my husband said, gazing at me over the mail, “are never dull.” 

He passed me a letter from that afternoon’s mail delivery, addressed to him alone. 

“Do you know who this is?” he asked, pointing to a name in the letter. 

It was a name common on Indy’s side of the family. 

“I don’t know that person,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not related.” 

I mean, I have cousins I didn’t meet until adulthood. 

I say “cousins” like I’m on The Bear but really their grandfathers — yes, plural — and my grandfather were all brothers. 

Wait — I also have cousins whose grandmother was Indy’s sister. 

And what do you call Indy’s father’s brother’s daughter’s husband? Because I have a story about that guy. 

Ooh — and what about my Uncle Bob? Uncle Bob and I are not related by blood. We’re only related because Indy was engaged to Uncle Bob’s sister before he married Willie. 

“How,” my husband asked, “can your dad’s ex-fiancée’s brother possibly be your uncle?” 

Well, what about Indy’s brother’s second wife’s grandson? Huh? What about him? 

“Not related to you,” my husband said.  

He’s just exasperated because when the Christmas cards come in, I go through, like, three layers of relatives to trace the sender back to someone my husband has actually met.  

So when this letter arrived — the one addressed to my husband — saying a child in another state’s foster system had a relation whose surname is in Indy’s family tree, it felt plausible. 

And also like a scam. 

And also like I might be getting a kid because there is no way I’m leaving a relation — no matter how distant that relation may be — in foster care. 

I mean, please. The last time I adopted a cat from the SPCA, my husband went with me to make sure I didn’t also adopt the horse. 

And the hamsters. 

And the rest of the cats. 

As unmoved as he was by the plight of that horse, my husband did agree we owed this kid a home. 

But I didn’t know this person in the letter — the one possibly related to Indy and definitely related to the kid. 

I thought my brother might know the name in the letter. I texted him.  

He called me.  

“You got the letter too?” he asked. 

It turns out, my brother’s ex-wife and her second husband had each received the same letter as my husband. As had my sister’s husband, my brother’s adult children, and my husband’s parents. 

And Willie. 

“Hey,” I said. If this kid is willing to take on Willie, then yes. We’re related,” I said. 

We all agreed Willie likely had already moved this kid into the Temple of Doom. 

And invited them to Thanksgiving. 

And signed over the 401(K). 

My sister warned us about calling the contact number in the letter.  

Having been through a few Willie scams, we’re all cautious. That the majority of the letter’s recipients were Indy’s in-laws — rather than people actually related to Indy — didn’t soothe us any. 

But the next day, my sister texted she was on the phone with the organization responsible for the letter. 

“You told us not to call!” my brother replied. 

My sister explained, via text, about looking up the organization online, finding a different phone number, and working from there.  

She didn’t actually say “duh” in her text, but it was there in the way only a youngest sibling could put it there.  

My sister was able to establish the subject of the letter was actually not a child at all, but an adult product of the foster system. 

I ceased all plans to convert our office into a bedroom. 

My sister also discovered the letter’s subjects were no relation to Indy. 

Unlike Uncle Bob’s family and Indy’s brother’s second wife’s grandson, who are all related to Indy. 

Kind of. 

We had no obligation here. My sister removed us from the contact list, my brother and I made sure Willie didn’t handle her copy of the letter alone, and I told my kids they weren’t getting a new sibling. 

But I feel bad for this person, kicking around for family. I spent a day or two wallowing. 

That was when the roses came. 

Fifty of them. 

For me. 

Sent anonymously.  

No card. No note. 

“You,” my husband said, shaking his head, “are never, ever dull.”