The gavel hadn’t even landed before the silence in the room became its own kind of verdict.

Twenty-two years of not knowing had led to this single moment—and still, the answer refused to come. Damian Johnson sat between his mother and his hope, watching six envelopes turn into six closed doors, and felt the floor drop out from under him for the seventh time in his life.

The first time was when he was twelve years old, sitting in the passenger seat of a man’s car—a man he had been told might be his father—after a weekend visit that felt like a job interview he didn’t know he was taking.

“We’re just checking to see if he had any diseases,” the man had said, sticking a cotton swab in Damian’s mouth.

The second time was when his mother told him the truth: that swab wasn’t for diseases. It was for DNA. And the result came back negative.

The third time was when the man who took that swab stopped calling. Stopped visiting. Stopped existing in Damian’s life, like the possibility of a father had never been there at all.

The fourth, fifth, and sixth times happened in this very courtroom, over the course of forty-five minutes, as name after name was called and dismissed.

Mr. Harmon. Not the father.

Mr. Slaughter. Not the father.

Mr. Henley. Not the father.

And then the name that carried the most weight—the name his mother had given him, the name of her first love, the man she had been convinced, body and soul, was the answer. Damian Ellerson.

But Damian Ellerson was dead. Murdered before his son—if he had a son—could ever know him. So the court tested his mother instead. Lethia Murray. The woman who had never met Damian Johnson, who had only seen him once at a church service when he was a teenager, who had sent a statement saying, “I don’t believe my son is the father of this child.”

The percentage of relatedness between Lethia Murray and Damian Johnson was 0.0%.

Zero.

Not one percent. Not a fraction of a possibility. Zero.

The word hung in the air like smoke from a gun that had just been fired into Damian’s chest. He didn’t cry. He had learned not to cry in front of people when he was seven years old, watching other boys run to their fathers at school pickup while he ran to his mother’s car alone.

But his jaw tightened. His hands, resting on the table in front of him, curled into fists beneath the wood where no one could see.

Judge Taylor, a woman who had presided over a thousand paternity cases and thought she had seen every permutation of heartbreak, found herself gripping her own bench. She had been a judge for nineteen years. She had delivered bad news before. But something about this young man—the way he held himself, the way he said “I feel like I’m not as good as everybody else ’cause they all got dads”—had cracked something open in her that she thought had calcified long ago.

“Damian,” she said, her voice softer than anyone in the courtroom had heard it all day. “Just take a breath, honey.”

Damian shook his head. His eyes were dry, but his voice wasn’t. “I’m ready to give up.”

“No.” The word came from three directions at once. Judge Taylor. His mother, Misty Johnson. And a woman in the gallery he had never met before—a stranger with tears running down her face, clutching a tissue like a lifeline.

“Don’t you ever,” Judge Taylor continued, standing up from her bench—actually standing, which no one in the courtroom could remember her ever doing during a ruling. “No. Damian, give me your hand.”

He hesitated. Then he reached across the partition, and Judge Taylor took his hand in both of hers.

“We are going to keep going. One foot in front of the other. You are going to keep your head up because you are an incredible young man. You have come here and you have exhibited the type of character that I can only hope my son would exhibit one day. And I don’t want you to feel anything about not being worth it. Do you understand me?”

Damian nodded. A single tear escaped—the first one he had allowed himself in years. He wiped it away quickly, like it was evidence of a crime.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Good.” Judge Taylor released his hand and turned to Misty Johnson. “Mom, you stood in this courtroom and said there are three more. I don’t care if it’s thirty-three. I want them all. I want every name. Every possibility. Every man who was in your life during the window of conception. We are going to test everybody we can test until we get the answer this child needs.”

Misty Johnson nodded, but her face was a battlefield. She had come into this courtroom with her armor on—the armor of a woman who had been called “fast,” who had admitted to sleeping with multiple men, who had laid her own reputation on the altar of her son’s need for truth.

She had said it herself: “I can’t use the word that I really felt like in the courtroom. I was fast then. I can’t take it back and I’m not going to sugarcoat it. It is what it is.”

But what she hadn’t said—what no one had asked—was the story behind the story. The seventeen-year-old girl. The mother who wasn’t there. The father who had never been in the picture. The survival that looked like chaos from the outside but felt like desperation from the inside.

She had raised three children alone. She had worked jobs that broke her body and shifts that broke her spirit. And when her son came to her at thirteen years old and said, “Mom, the man I thought was my dad isn’t my dad,” she didn’t curl up. She got to work.

She reached out to Mr. Henley. Then to Mr. Slaughter. Then to Mr. Harmon. She called Lethia Murray the same day she got the negative results from the first DNA test—the one taken with a Q-tip and a lie.

“Misty, you need to slow down,” her best friend had told her back then. “You’re going to run yourself into the ground.”

“My son needs to know where he came from,” Misty had replied. “I can’t give him that. But somebody can.”

Now, twenty-two years after Damian was born, she was still running. Still calling. Still hoping.

“Three more,” she said to Judge Taylor, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “I have three more names.”

“Then we will test three more men,” Judge Taylor replied. “And if those come back negative, we will test three more after that. Do you understand me, Mr. Johnson? We do not stop until you have your answer.”

Damian looked at the judge. Then at his mother. Then at the six envelopes lying on the table like abandoned promises.

“Thank you,” he said. “But I gotta be honest—I don’t even know if I want to know anymore. Every time I think I’m close, it’s like the door slams. And I’m tired of standing in the hallway.”

The courtroom went quiet. Even the bailiff, a grizzled man who had seen everything, looked away.

It was Mr. Henley—the cousin of the deceased Damian Ellerson, the man who had admitted to sleeping with Misty Johnson “a couple of times” after his cousin died—who broke the silence.

“Can I say something?”

Judge Taylor nodded. “Go ahead.”

Mr. Henley stood up from the witness stand. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and heavy-set, with the kind of face that looked like it had spent more time in the sun than in air conditioning. He walked over to Damian and stood in front of him.

“I’m not your father,” Mr. Henley said. “The DNA test proved that. But I want you to know something. Your mother came to me when you were thirteen. She showed me pictures. Side-by-side, you and my cousin. And I gotta tell you—you look like him. You look like Damian Ellerson.”

Damian looked up. “What?”

“You got his eyes. His jaw. The way you hold your head when you’re listening to somebody. I didn’t want to see it at first because it was too painful. My cousin was gone. And the idea that he had a son out there that nobody knew about—that was a lot to carry. But I see it. I’ve always seen it.”

“Then why didn’t the DNA test show a connection?” Misty asked, her voice sharp. “If he looks like Damian, why did Lethia Murray’s test come back zero?”

Mr. Henley turned to face her. “Because Lethia Murray isn’t my cousin’s biological mother.”

The room shifted. The air changed.

“What?” Judge Taylor leaned forward. “Explain what you just said.”

Mr. Henley took a breath. “Damian Ellerson was adopted. He never knew. His mother—the woman he called Mom, Lethia Murray—raised him from the time he was two years old. But she wasn’t his biological mother. He didn’t know. None of us knew. Not until after he died, when my aunt—my real aunt, his biological mother—came forward at the funeral.”

Misty Johnson’s hand flew to her mouth. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Henley said. “I should have said something earlier. But I didn’t think it mattered. The court asked for Lethia Murray’s DNA to test against Damian. But Lethia Murray isn’t related to my cousin. So of course the test came back zero. She’s not his biological mother. She never was.”

Judge Taylor was already waving over the court clerk. “Get me the records. I want to see Damian Ellerson’s birth certificate. I want to see the adoption paperwork. I want to know who his biological parents are.”

The clerk nodded and disappeared through the side door.

Damian sat frozen. His mind was a car spinning on ice—trying to find traction, finding none. He had spent twenty-two years not knowing who his father was. And now he was learning that the man his mother believed was his father—the man whose name he carried—might not have known who his mother was either.

“How is this possible?” Damian whispered. “How is it possible that nobody knows anything?”

Mr. Henley knelt down so he was at eye level with Damian. “Because some families are built on secrets, son. My cousin’s family? They had a lot of secrets. And now those secrets are standing between you and the truth. But that doesn’t mean the truth isn’t there. It just means we gotta dig deeper.”

At this point, Tasha Fortune—Damian Ellerson’s adoptive sister—stood up from her seat in the gallery. Her face was flushed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She had been quiet all morning, but now she looked like a woman who had run out of patience.

“Hold on,” Tasha said, walking toward the front of the courtroom. “I have something to say, and I want it on the record.”

Judge Taylor raised an eyebrow. “You’re not sworn in, Miss Fortune.”

“Then swear me in,” Tasha shot back. “Because I’m tired of my family’s name being dragged through the mud in front of cameras and strangers who don’t know the whole story.”

The judge glanced at the bailiff, who shrugged and handed Tasha a Bible. She placed her hand on it, was sworn in, and took a seat in the witness box.

“Miss Fortune,” Judge Taylor said, “you are the sister of the deceased Damian Ellerson. Is that correct?”

“Adoptive sister,” Tasha corrected. “But yes. He was my brother. I loved him. And I’m tired of hearing my mother—Lethia Murray—being painted as some kind of villain for not embracing this young man with open arms.”

Misty Johnson stiffened. “No one is painting your mother as a villain. I just want the truth.”

“The truth?” Tasha laughed—a bitter, sharp sound. “You want the truth? Here’s the truth. My mother raised Damian from the time he was two years old. She changed his diapers. She stayed up with him when he was sick. She worked two jobs to put him through school. And when he was murdered, she buried him. She buried her son. And then, years later, she gets a phone call from a woman she’s never met—you—saying, ‘Hey, your son might have a child. And by the way, that child is now a teenager, and we want to be part of your family.’”

Tasha’s voice cracked, but she kept going. “Do you have any idea what that phone call did to her? She was seventy-two years old. She had just started to heal. And suddenly, she was supposed to accept that she had a grandson she never knew about? A grandson who had been alive for thirteen years without anyone telling her?”

Misty opened her mouth, but Tasha wasn’t finished.

“My mother didn’t reject Damian,” Tasha said, pointing at Damian Johnson. “She didn’t reject him. She rejected the situation. She rejected the years of silence. She rejected the fact that she had been robbed of the chance to watch her son’s child grow up. And instead of giving her grace, instead of giving her time, you dragged her into court. You made her send a statement. You made her defend herself for not feeling ready.”

She turned to face Damian directly. “And you—you came to my mother’s church when you were a teenager. You sat in the pew. You looked at her. And she looked at you, and she saw my brother’s face, and she almost fainted. Do you know that? She almost passed out because the resemblance was so strong. But she didn’t know how to say that. She didn’t know how to say, ‘You might be my grandson, but I’m too old and too tired and too broken to start over.’”

Damian’s eyes were wide. “I didn’t know. I didn’t—she never said anything. She just looked at me and then looked away.”

“Because that’s what she does when she’s overwhelmed,” Tasha said. “She shuts down. She retreats. It’s not cruelty. It’s survival. Just like your mother did what she had to do to survive. Just like you’re doing what you have to do to survive. We’re all just surviving, and nobody’s doing it perfectly, and I’m sick of people pretending like there’s a villain here.”

The courtroom was silent. Even the cameras seemed to hold their breath.

Judge Taylor leaned back in her chair. “Miss Fortune, are you saying that your mother—Lethia Murray—would be open to a relationship with Damian if the DNA proves he is her biological grandson?”

Tasha exhaled. “I don’t know. I can’t speak for her. She’s old. She’s set in her ways. But I can tell you this—she never stopped loving my brother. And if his son exists, she would want to know. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s messy. She would want to know.”

She looked at Misty. “But you have to give her time. You can’t force a seventy-five-year-old woman to process two decades of lost time in one afternoon.”

Misty nodded slowly. “I understand. I just—I didn’t know how else to do this. I didn’t have a way to reach her that didn’t feel like an ambush. I called. I left messages. I sent letters. Nobody answered. This was the only way I knew to get someone’s attention.”

Tasha’s face softened—just slightly. “Well, you got it. Now what?”

Before Misty could answer, the courtroom doors opened, and a woman walked in.

She was older—late sixties, maybe—with silver hair pulled back in a tight bun and glasses perched on the edge of her nose. She wore a simple blue dress and carried a leather purse clutched to her chest like a shield.

Behind her was a younger woman—early forties, dressed in jeans and a cardigan, her face pale and her hands shaking.

“I’m looking for Judge Taylor,” the older woman said.

The bailiff stepped forward. “Ma’am, this is a closed proceeding. You can’t just—”

“She can stay,” Judge Taylor said, her eyes fixed on the newcomer. “Who are you?”

The woman walked to the front of the courtroom. She stopped in front of the witness box, looked at Tasha Fortune, then at Misty Johnson, then at Damian.

“My name is Patricia Ann Williams,” she said. “And I believe I’m the woman you’ve been looking for.”

The name hit the room like a thunderclap.

Damian stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. Misty grabbed his arm, steadying him. Tasha Fortune’s mouth fell open. And Mr. Henley—who had been standing near the bench—took a step back like he had been punched in the chest.

“Patricia Williams?” Judge Taylor repeated. “The biological mother of Damian Ellerson?”

Patricia nodded. She didn’t sit. She stood in the center of the courtroom, her hands gripping her purse, her eyes fixed on a spot on the wall behind the judge’s head.

“I gave him up when he was two years old,” Patricia said. “I was young. I was stupid. I was addicted to things I shouldn’t have been addicted to. And I thought—I thought he deserved better than me.”

She paused. Her voice was steady, but her hands were not.

“I signed the papers. I walked away. I told myself it was the right thing to do. And for a while, I believed it. I got clean. I got married. I had more children. I built a life. But I never stopped thinking about him. I never stopped wondering if he was okay. I never stopped hoping that one day, I would get the chance to tell him I was sorry.”

Tasha Fortune stepped forward. “You came to the funeral.”

Patricia nodded. “I came to the funeral. I stood in the back. I watched Lethia Murray cry over the casket of a boy she raised, and I couldn’t bring myself to go forward. I couldn’t say, ‘Excuse me, that’s my son too.’ Because he wasn’t. Not really. She was his mother. She earned that title. I just gave birth to him.”

She finally looked at Damian. “And then I saw you. At the funeral. Standing in the back, just like me. And I knew. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. You were his son. You looked just like him. Just like his father.”

Damian’s voice was barely a whisper. “His father? You knew who his father was?”

Patricia nodded. “His name was Marcus. Marcus Webb. He died in 1995—car accident. He never knew about Damian. I was pregnant when we broke up, and I never told him. I was young and scared and stupid, and I made a thousand wrong decisions, and every single one of them led to this moment.”

She reached into her purse and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “This is Marcus Webb’s obituary. And this—” she pulled out a second paper, “—is a DNA test I took last week. I had a private lab compare my DNA to public records they could find for Damian Johnson. I didn’t know if it would work. I didn’t know if they would have access. But I had to try.”

She handed both papers to the bailiff, who handed them to Judge Taylor.

The judge unfolded the DNA results. Her eyes moved across the page. Her expression didn’t change—not at first. But then something flickered across her face. Something that looked like the beginning of tears.

“Miss Williams,” Judge Taylor said slowly, “this document indicates that you and Damian Johnson share 25% of your DNA. That would make you—”

“His grandmother,” Patricia finished. “If Damian Ellerson was his father, then I am his paternal grandmother. And this test—this private test—says that I am.”

She looked at Damian. “I don’t know if the court will accept this. I don’t know if it’s admissible. But I wanted you to have it. I wanted you to know that someone on that side of the family wants to be part of your life. Even if it’s not the someone you expected.”

The courtroom erupted.

Mr. Henley started shouting. Tasha Fortune started crying. Misty Johnson collapsed back into her chair, her hand over her heart. And Damian—Damian stood frozen, staring at the woman who had just claimed him.

“Your Honor,” the court clerk said, “we need to verify these results. This private test wasn’t done under court supervision. There’s no chain of custody. We can’t just—”

“I know,” Judge Taylor said, holding up her hand. “I know we can’t just accept this. But we can use it as a basis to order an official test. Miss Williams, are you willing to provide a new DNA sample, here, today, under court supervision?”

Patricia nodded. “That’s why I came.”

“And Mr. Johnson—Damian—are you willing to provide another sample?”

Damian looked at his mother. Misty nodded.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Damian said. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

The bailiff brought in a DNA collection kit. A court-approved phlebotomist was called from the back room—everyone had forgotten she was there, waiting for exactly this moment. She swabbed the inside of Patricia’s cheek, then Damian’s. She sealed the samples, labeled them, and handed them to the clerk.

“Standard processing time is forty-eight hours,” the clerk said.

“We don’t have forty-eight hours,” Damian said. “I’ve been waiting twenty-two years.”

Judge Taylor looked at the clock. It was 4:30 p.m.

“I’m ordering an expedited process,” she said. “The lab stays open tonight. We reconvene tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. sharp. By then, we will have an answer.”

She banged her gavel. “Court is adjourned until 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

But no one moved.

Tasha Fortune walked over to Damian. She stood in front of him for a long moment. Then she did something no one expected.

She hugged him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for all of it. If you’re my brother’s son, then you’re my nephew. And I should have been here sooner.”

Damian hugged her back. “You’re here now.”

Patricia Williams stood off to the side, watching. She didn’t approach Damian. She didn’t try to hug him or touch him. She just stood there, waiting.

Misty walked over to her. “Thank you,” Misty said. “For coming. For telling the truth.”

Patricia nodded. “I should have told it thirty years ago. But I’m telling it now.”

The cameras captured it all. Every tear. Every hug. Every painful, beautiful, messy moment.

And online, the comments started pouring in before the court reporter even filed her notes.

That night, Damian didn’t sleep.

He lay in the bed of the budget motel his mother had booked, staring at the ceiling, running through every possible outcome. What if the test came back negative? What if Patricia Williams wasn’t his grandmother? What if he was right back where he started, with six names and six rejections and no answers?

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

“My name is Danielle Webb. Marcus Webb was my father. If the test comes back positive, that means we’re related. I’ve been looking for you for years. Please call me.”

Damian stared at the message. His hands were shaking.

He called the number.

A woman answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Danielle? This is Damian. Damian Johnson.”

There was a pause. Then a sob. Then: “Oh my God. You’re real. You’re actually real.”

“Yeah,” Damian said. “I’m real.”

“My dad—Marcus—he died when I was six. I don’t remember him much. But my mom—she told me he had a son before me. A son he never knew about. She said he would have wanted to know. She said he would have wanted to be a father.”

Danielle was crying now—loud, messy, unapologetic tears. “I’ve been searching ancestry websites for years. I found Patricia Williams’s name in some old records. I reached out to her six months ago. She didn’t want to talk at first. But I kept pushing. I kept telling her that family is family, even when it’s complicated. And finally—finally—she agreed to take the test. She agreed to come to court.”

Damian closed his eyes. “You’re the reason she showed up.”

“I’m the reason she knew you existed,” Danielle said. “But you’re the reason she had the courage to walk through those doors.”

They talked for two hours. They talked about Marcus Webb—the father Damian never knew, the man who died before he could be found. They talked about growing up without dads, about the questions that never got answered, about the strange, aching hope of finding family in unexpected places.

By the time they hung up, it was 2:00 a.m.

Damian didn’t sleep. But he didn’t feel tired either. For the first time in twenty-two years, he felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

The next morning, the courtroom was packed.

Every seat was filled. People stood along the walls. Cameras lined the back. The story had spread overnight—the young man with six potential fathers, the adopted deceased, the biological grandmother who walked in off the street, the sister who had been searching for years.

Judge Taylor took her seat at 9:00 a.m. sharp.

“The lab results are in,” she said. “I have reviewed them. And I am prepared to read them now.”

Damian grabbed his mother’s hand. Misty squeezed back so hard her knuckles went white.

“Mr. Harmon. Mr. Slaughter. Mr. Henley. Mr. Ellerson—deceased. We have already determined that none of these men are the biological father of Damian Johnson.”

She opened the new envelope.

“These results pertain to Patricia Ann Williams, biological mother of the deceased Damian Ellerson. When it comes to twenty-two-year-old Damian Johnson, it has been determined by this court—”

She paused. The room held its breath.

“—that the percentage of relatedness between Patricia Ann Williams and Damian Johnson is 24.9%. That is consistent with a grandparent-grandchild relationship.”

She looked up. “Patricia Ann Williams is the paternal grandmother of Damian Johnson. Therefore, Damian Ellerson—deceased—is the biological father of Damian Johnson.”

The courtroom exploded.

Misty Johnson screamed—a sound of pure, unfiltered relief. She grabbed her son and pulled him into her arms, sobbing into his shoulder. Damian held her, his own tears finally falling, his body shaking with the weight of twenty-two years finally lifted.

Patricia Williams sat in the front row, her hands folded in her lap, her face wet with tears. She didn’t stand. She didn’t rush the stage. She just sat there, letting the moment wash over her.

Tasha Fortune walked over to her. “You did it,” Tasha said. “You gave him the answer.”

Patricia shook her head. “No. He gave himself the answer. He never gave up. I almost did. A hundred times, I almost did. But he didn’t. That boy—that man—he never gave up.”

Mr. Henley stood up and clapped. Then Mr. Slaughter. Then Mr. Harmon. Then the bailiff. Then the gallery. Everyone was on their feet, clapping and cheering and crying, because some stories are too big to contain, too powerful to watch in silence.

Judge Taylor didn’t bang her gavel. She didn’t ask for order. She just sat back and let the moment happen.

After a long minute, she raised her hand. The room slowly quieted.

“Damian Johnson,” she said, “you have your answer. You have your father’s name. You have your grandmother. You have a sister—Danielle Webb, who I understand reached out to you last night. You have a family. It may not look the way you imagined. It may be messy and complicated and full of difficult conversations. But it is yours. And no one can ever take that from you.”

Damian stepped away from his mother. He walked over to Patricia Williams.

She stood up. They faced each other—grandmother and grandson, strangers who shared blood and loss and the strange, unexpected gift of second chances.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Damian said. “I don’t know how to have a grandmother. I don’t know how to have a family that isn’t just my mom.”

Patricia smiled—a small, tentative smile. “Neither do I. But I figure we can learn together.”

Damian reached out his hand. Patricia took it.

And in that moment, something healed. Not everything. Not all the wounds. But enough. Just enough to start.

Outside the courthouse, the cameras were waiting. Reporters shouted questions. Microphones were thrust into faces.

Misty Johnson stepped up to the microphones first. “I was fast,” she said. “I made mistakes. I slept with men I shouldn’t have slept with. But I raised my son. I raised him alone. And I never stopped fighting for him. So you can judge me if you want. You can call me names. But at the end of the day, my son knows who his father is. And that’s all that matters.”

The comments online were already on fire.

“Six men? Six? And she’s proud of that?”

“She admitted she was fast. At least she’s honest.”

“Honest? She waited until her son was 22 to do this. Why not when he was a baby?”

“She didn’t have the money. Read the article.”

“Money? She had money for other things.”

“Y’all are so quick to judge a woman who was doing her best.”

“Her best? Her best got her six potential baby daddies.”

“She raised a good man. That’s what matters.”

“Damian is the real hero here. He never gave up.”

“Patricia Williams is the hero. She came forward when she didn’t have to.”

“What about Marcus Webb? He died without ever knowing he had a son. That’s the real tragedy.”

“Danielle Webb is the real MVP. She did the research. She made the connection.”

“This is why DNA testing should be mandatory at birth.”

“Mandatory? That’s a violation of privacy.”

“So is not knowing who your father is for 22 years.”

The debate raged for days. News outlets picked up the story. Talk shows debated the ethics of Misty Johnson’s choices. Paternity experts weighed in on the likelihood of six potential fathers. Adoption advocates discussed the complexities of closed records and biological ties.

But Damian Johnson wasn’t reading the comments.

He was sitting in a coffee shop with Danielle Webb, drinking something with too much sugar, laughing at a joke he didn’t quite understand, and feeling, for the first time in his life, like he belonged somewhere.

His phone buzzed. A text from Tasha Fortune.

“My mother wants to meet you. Take it slow. She’s scared. But she wants to try.”

Damian showed the text to Danielle.

“One step at a time,” Danielle said.

Damian nodded. “One step at a time.”

He looked out the window at the city skyline—at the buildings and the cars and the people rushing past, each of them carrying their own secrets, their own questions, their own quiet desperation to be known.

He had spent twenty-two years asking, “Who am I?”

Now he knew.

He was Damian Johnson. Son of Damian Ellerson. Grandson of Patricia Williams. Brother of Danielle Webb. Nephew of Tasha Fortune.

And he was just getting started.