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But then one day, Anne kissed Ronan goodbye as he left for work.

Four hours later, she had just put little Lucas down for a nap when there was a knock at the door.

She opened it to find two police officers alongside Ronan’s boss, who informed her that Ronan had been killed in an accident on the construction site where he’d been working.

She hadn’t believed it until she walked into the county morgue to identify his body.

Then, and only then, seeing him cold and gray and lifeless on a slab, her world fell apart, and she fell to her knees, wailing in despair.

She survived for three more months on her own before it became clear that she could not support Lucas without help; she simply didn’t make enough to pay for both her rent and her son’s care while she worked.

“I knew you’d come home,” Maman said smugly when Anne showed up at their door, her eyes not on her newfound grandson but on Anne, who squirmed under her gaze.

“Well, you might as well come in. I suppose you’re here because you couldn’t make it on your own?

And you got yourself knocked up, too, I see. ”

Never mind that nearly two decades had passed; Maman picked up just where she’d left off on the day of the holiday party.

Papa fell in love with Lucas instantly, and over time, Anne watched as Maman was charmed by her infant grandson, too.

They stayed for ten long years, and then they set out on their own, moving a few hours away to Marlboro, Vermont.

When Maman was diagnosed with colon cancer in 1998, Lucas, who had just graduated from college, returned home to help his grandfather tend to her.

After Maman died, Anne tried to come home, too; she thought that it would feel easier to be in the old house again, to be around Papa.

But even with Maman gone, he wouldn’t speak honestly with her about the past; he was still defending his wife’s honor long after she’d gone to her grave. And finally, Anne had had enough.

She didn’t tell Lucas about all that had come before; she had always hoped that Papa might in some way fill the hole that had been left in Lucas’s life after Ronan had died. A boy shouldn’t grow up without a paternal influence.

But Anne couldn’t be there anymore, so while Lucas stayed and built a life in Boston, Anne retreated to the home where she’d raised Lucas, some three hours away, in a town known for a small private college and an annual music festival, and perhaps more importantly, for its privacy and isolation.

Her son visited often, especially after he married and had Millie, and Anne rarely felt lonely.

She wished sometimes that she could reconcile with Papa, but she didn’t know how, and anyhow, he never tried to mend that bridge with honesty.

She was seventy-nine years old now, and she had gotten used to being by herself, to delighting in the joy of spring blooms and autumn leaves, and the magic of each year’s first snowfall.

The little house in Marlboro was her haven, at last, the place where she could be herself, whoever that was.

That’s where she was late one April afternoon, sipping her tea on the front porch of her home, when she saw Lucas’s car turn into her long driveway.

What on earth was he doing here? Wasn’t today the funeral of her parents’ old friend Hubert Verdier, the one she’d caught Maman with years before?

Her son got out of the car first, and she recognized her sweet granddaughter Millie, of course, but there were three strangers with them.

Had Lucas finally found a girlfriend? He hadn’t dated much since Vanessa’s death, and it would make Anne happy to think that he had found love again. But who were the other two?

“Lucas?” she said, rising from her chair as the old woman behind him stared at her. There was something familiar about her, but Anne couldn’t quite place her.

“Mom,” he said, starting up the front walk toward her, a broad smile on his face. “I’ve brought you a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Her eyes went back to the old woman, who was perhaps a decade older than her. Again, she was struck with a sense of knowing her.

“Liliane?” the woman said, and Anne swallowed hard.

“My name is Anne,” she said, but even as the words were leaving her mouth, she knew they weren’t true. They never had been, had they?

And somehow, the old woman seemed to know this, too. “I knew you as Liliane,” she said gently as she walked up the steps toward her. The woman looked deep into her eyes, and Anne was frozen to the spot, pinned by the familiarity of the penetrating gaze. “I’m Colette. Do you remember me?”

Liliane hadn’t heard that name in seventy-six years, but the word itself was the key to unlocking a box of memories, and suddenly, Liliane could see flashes of a past she had been told again and again did not exist. A fourteen-year-old Colette holding her hand as they walked down the rue Pasteur.

Colette reading her a picture book at bedtime.

Colette beside her as their mother laughed and repeated her eagle’s calls.

“ Kyi-kyi-kyi ,” Liliane said softly now, and she watched as the older woman’s face broke into a smile.

“ Ko-ko-ko ,” Colette responded, and that was when Liliane knew for sure.

“You’re my sister,” Liliane whispered.

Colette smiled at her and reached for her hands. “I’m your sister,” she repeated, and the two of them stared at each other in awe before they fell into each other’s arms.