The man’s voice was raspy and old. “Please do not hang up,” he whispered. “My name is Arthur Pell. Tell Dorothy that Vivian’s daughter is still alive.” My blood ran cold. I had never heard the name Vivian. In the bed beside me, Dorothy opened her eyes and stared at the phone as if she could hear every word. “Give it to me,” she breathed.

Dorothy took the phone with shaking hands, and the room fell silent. “Arthur,” she said, “after sixty years, you dare.” She listened, and tears slid down her cheeks. Then she covered the receiver and looked at me. “Margaret, forgive me. I never told your husband the truth about his family. Those dresses were sewn by my sister, and she made a promise to me in 1964.”