Beneath the name was her address.

I copied it down, thanked the banker, walked to my car, and drove there immediately.

The house was modest but well cared for. The two teenage boys I had seen at the funeral were shooting basketballs in the driveway. When they saw me step out of the car, they stopped and stared. One of them turned toward the house.

“Mom!”

The door opened, and the woman from the funeral stepped outside.

“You’re Mark’s wife,” she said.

“I am, but who are you? Why did you leave that note in the guest book?”

“I left it because Mark had been hiding a secret from you for years.”

I glanced at the boys in the driveway.

“The children… are they his?”

Anna raised her eyebrows. “No. Not in the way you think.” She gestured toward the porch chairs. “Please. Sit down. I’ll explain everything.”

I sat.

“I’m Anna,” she said. “Mark’s sister. These are my children, but for the past six years, Mark was their only father figure.”

“His… sister?”

She nodded. “We didn’t speak for many years. My family—including Mark—hated the man I married. They gave me an ultimatum: leave him, or lose them. I was foolish… I chose him.”

Suddenly I understood why she had seemed familiar.

Years ago I had seen a photograph of Mark as a teenager with his arm around a girl’s shoulders. I had asked if she was his girlfriend, and he shook his head sadly.

He never told me who she was, but now I knew—it was Anna.

“One night my husband came home furious. I was scared. I took the kids and called Mark.”