I froze on the sidewalk, the envelope pressed against my chest. The unfamiliar woman’s voice came through the speaker again, calm and steady. “Maggie, he has the right to know. Tell him, or I will.” My mother began sobbing so hard I could barely understand her. “Please,” she begged, “don’t open it. Not until I get there.” Then the line went dead.

My heart pounded as I waited. Ten minutes later, a taxi stopped at the curb. My mother climbed out, shaking, and beside her stood a gray-haired woman with curly hair and a crooked smile. I looked at her, then at the envelope in my hands, and the sealed flap suddenly felt heavy. Mom whispered, “Please, just look at her face before you judge me.”