My husband passed away after 62 years of marriage. At his funeral, a young girl approached me, handed me an envelope, and said, "He asked me to give this to you today."

A few days later, after Gini's mother returned home, she invited me to their house.

She took out an old photo album that she had kept for years, and I slowly turned the pages, watching a childhood unfold through the photographs: a girl growing up, class photos and holiday snapshots.

Then I turned another page, and it took my breath away.

It was a photo of young Harold, standing in front of what appeared to be a boarding house. Next to him stood a teenage girl holding a newborn baby; both were squinting in the sunlight.

I knew this girl. I grew up in the same house as her.

I knew that girl.

It was my older sister, Iris. The one who left home when I was fifteen and never came back. The one my parents never spoke about until the end of their days, because reopening that wound was too painful.

"That's my mother," said Virginia, Gini's mother, softly. "She passed away 12 years ago."

The photo slipped from my hands as tears welled up in my eyes.

"Are you okay?" Virginia asked, reaching out to catch me before I collapsed.

I closed the album.

"I have to go home," I said.

"She passed away 12 years ago."