That’s when I thought of my mother’s sister, Margaret. She lived less than two hours away. We hadn’t spoken in years. My mother and Margaret had never gotten along, and after my father died, whatever fragile connection they had disappeared completely.
But suddenly, Margaret mattered.
She was the only person left who might know something.
I didn’t call her. I was afraid she’d make excuses—busy, tired, not a good time. I didn’t want excuses. I wanted the truth.
So I got in my car, placed the photograph on the passenger seat, and drove straight to her house.
For illustrative purposes only
Confrontation
I arrived just before sunset. Sitting in the car, I wondered if I was about to make a mistake. Then I walked up to the door and knocked.
It took longer than I expected for it to open. When it did, my aunt stood there leaning heavily on a cane. Her hair was completely gray, her face thinner, lined with years of carrying things alone.
She stared at me for a moment. “Anna,” she said finally. Not surprised. Just tired.
I nodded. “Hi.”
