The GPS led me to a small white house at the end of a quiet street. Gerald’s truck had been there so often that even the woman who opened the door recognized it immediately. She stared at me, then whispered, “You must be Gerald’s wife.” Her name was Rebecca, and before I could ask another question, a framed photograph behind her caught my attention. Gerald was standing beside Rebecca at her college graduation, his arm around her shoulders. Then she said the words that made me grip the doorway: “He was my father.” Rebecca was forty-two. She had been born before Gerald and I married, and he had supported her privately for decades without ever telling me or our children she existed.
...
