It was a small brass key on a faded blue ribbon, the same key my husband’s late father had kept locked inside his workshop desk. I had last seen it twenty years ago, buried with him in a sealed box at the cemetery. “Where did you get this?” I whispered again. The stranger’s eyes softened. “My name is Nathan Cole,” he said. “Your husband’s father was my father too.” My hand flew to my mouth, and the dining room seemed to tilt.

Before I could speak, a woman’s voice called from across the room. A gray-haired lady in a lavender dress was hurrying toward us, holding a worn envelope to her chest. “Nathan, you promised to wait for me,” she said, breathless. Then she looked at me, and tears filled her eyes. “Margaret,” she whispered, using my name though we had never met, “I am so sorry. I am the one who hid the truth from your husband.”