At the bottom of the chest was a worn folder.

The documents inside revealed that sixty-five years earlier Harold had quietly taken responsibility for a young woman and her newborn daughter after the baby’s father disappeared. He paid their rent, covered school fees, and sent monthly support for years.

Every letter the woman wrote to him had been carefully preserved.

For a moment one terrible thought filled my mind.

Harold had another family.

I sat down on the cold garage floor and covered my mouth.

“Oh Harold,” I whispered.

I heard the sound of gravel outside.

The girl from the funeral stood in the doorway holding a bicycle.

“I thought you might come here,” she said.

“You followed me?”

She nodded without embarrassment.

“When Harold gave me the envelope, he said it was the most important thing I would ever do.”

I looked at her carefully.

“What’s your name?”

“Gini.”

“And your mother?”

“Virginia.”

The name echoed in my chest.

“Can you take me to her?”