I kept asking myself who Beatrice was and why my husband had been quietly paying her housing expenses for nearly thirty years. When I finally reached the quiet neighborhood in Biloxi, I sat in the idling car for several minutes before forcing myself to step out onto the pavement.
I walked up the creaky wooden porch steps and knocked on the front door, my heart hammering against my ribs. An elderly woman opened the door a moment later, looking thin with silver hair pulled back into a loose, soft bun.
Then I looked closely at her face, and everything inside me seemed to freeze in complete disbelief. “Oh my God,” I whispered, clutching my purse tightly against my chest.
The woman stared back at me, her eyes widening in gradual recognition. “It is you, isn’t it?” she asked softly.
“How is this even possible?” I asked, trembling as I leaned against the porch railing. “You died almost thirty years ago.”
She gripped the wooden doorframe firmly with her wrinkled hand. “Died?” she repeated very slowly, looking genuinely puzzled. “Who on earth told you that?”
“My husband, Charles,” I answered, my voice cracking under the weight of the sudden shock.
