“Margo says he cheated—and, by the way, I’ve never, ever said anything to Margo about this.”

“If he cheated, it’s because she did.”

“Anne—” I start, then stop, remembering what he said to me yesterday. We had an agreement. Neither of us would tell.

There’s so much we don’t know. I wish Mom was alive to give answers. I wish Dad was of sound mind and approachable. I wish I remembered more.

I’m guessing my sister’s thoughts are similar, because her anger fizzles. She is whispering again, and I understand that, too. It’s not that anyone is close by, just that whispering is less threatening. “How long have you wondered about this?”

“Oh, God,” I roll my eyes, “since I was a teenager and had no idea why he was always so down on me. I mean, there were good times. But the bad times are the ones I remember.”

“I didn’t know.”

“And I didn’t say back then, because it sounded so absurd. But I’m not a bad person, Anne. I’ve learned that. People like me. Joy loves me. There is no one else in this world who treats me like he did.”

She looks like she wants to argue. Loyalty to Dad has been her credo. I hear a touch of challenge when she asks, “If he isn’t your biological, who is?”

I shrug, not ready to share the possibilities, much less their source.

“You look like us.”

“I look like Mom. We all do. Her genes must be the dominant ones.”

“Is that why you stayed away all those years, y’know, because we aren’t sisters?”

I pull her close. Once her initial stiffness fades, I say a soft, “We are sisters. We have the same blood. Look at Joy. She’s probably more like you than she is like me. Nothing will ever change that.”

She nods against my shoulder.

“And no,” I go on, “it’s not why I stayed away.” Drawing back, I look her in the eye. “Well, maybe Dad is. He never said he wanted me here—and don’t defend him, you know it’s true. But it was me, Anne. Really. When I left, I didn’t know who I was. I had to find out.”

“You made a life in New York.”

“With Joy, but no family.”

“You have Chrissie.”

“She’s not like you and me. I want what we had before, Annie. I want us to be close.”

She sinks against the truck, seeming younger and more vulnerable. I join her there, my arm flush to hers as we look back at Gendy’s, where the last splinters of sun have faded and lights now outline the sprawling house.

“What about Jack?” she asks.

“Definitely not family, and definitely not why I came back. I mean it.”

“You loved him. I assumed he was it for you.”