After my mother died, I uncovered a concealed photograph—and with it, the existence of a sister I had never known.

I arrived just before sunset. Sitting there for a moment, I questioned whether I was making a mistake. Then I stepped out, walked to the door, and knocked.

It took a while before it opened. When it did, my aunt stood there, leaning on a cane. Her hair was completely gray, her face thinner, marked by years of quiet burden.

She looked at me for a long moment. “Anna,” she finally said—not surprised, just weary.

I nodded. “Hi.”

She moved aside and let me in.