One rainy morning, while searching the attic, I found a letter—dated the night she vanished. It was from Laura. She had been pregnant. The baby wasn’t Luke’s. She couldn’t marry him with that secret. “I can’t live a life built on lies,” she wrote. She left an address in case I ever wanted to find her. I did. At a yellow house in Wisconsin, a little girl drew hearts with chalk. Then Laura appeared—older, but unmistakably her. We hugged, and the ache of ten years finally lifted.

She didn’t ask for forgiveness. She had chosen truth over comfort. Peace over pretending. When I returned, Mama asked if I’d found anything. “No,” I said. That night, I burned the letter—not to forget her, but to release her. My sister lives quietly now, surrounded by sunflowers and sidewalk hearts. And I’ve found peace, too.