When Virginia was strong enough to talk, she told me Harold had saved her life and her mother’s.
Later she showed me an old photo album.
On one page was a photograph of a young Harold standing beside a teenage girl holding a baby.
The moment I saw her, my breath stopped.
I knew that girl.
It was my sister Iris—the sister who had left home when I was fifteen and never returned.
That baby in her arms had been Virginia.
When I returned home, I opened Harold’s old diary and read the entries from sixty-five years earlier.
He had found my sister abandoned with her newborn.
Only later did he realize who she was.
He helped her quietly for years, knowing that revealing her situation would reopen wounds in my family.
So he kept the secret.
Not to betray me.
But to protect everyone.
I closed the diary and held it tightly.
Harold had carried this burden alone for sixty-five years.
The next day I visited Virginia and Gini again.
I told them the truth.
Continued on next page:
