The moment I mentioned Anna, Diane fell silent.
“I have nothing to say to you about that.”
Then she hung up.
A week later, she called me back.
“Anna’s sister married a man from Pittsburgh.”
“You know her name?”
“I remember the married name.”
“Give it to me.”
Three phone calls later, a woman answered.
“Hello?”
I closed my eyes.
Even after four decades, I recognized that voice.
“Anna? This is Walter.”
For several seconds, all I heard was breathing.
Then she whispered, “Walter. My God.”
“Anna, could I come see you?”
“After forty years?”
“I know how that sounds. But Carol asked me to find you before she died. I need to understand why.”
Silence.
“When?”
“Whenever you’re comfortable.”
Another pause.
“Saturday.”
—
Saturday morning, I drove four hours to Pittsburgh with Carol’s ring in my pocket.
I sat outside Anna’s house for nearly an hour before finally forcing myself to knock.
Then the door opened.
Her hair was silver now, and soft lines framed her mouth, but her eyes were exactly as I remembered them.
And somehow, they looked familiar in another way too.
I couldn’t understand why.
“Walter.”
“Anna. I’m sorry to appear like this out of nowhere. My wife, Carol… she passed away a few weeks ago. Before she died, she asked me to find you.”
Something shifted across Anna’s face.
Recognition.
Sorrow.
And a tired kind of understanding.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I think I know why.”
She stepped aside.
