I parked my car down the road, near an old barn. My legs felt like lead when I got out. I walked up the gravel driveway. Every step felt like I was walking toward a cliff.

I stood on the porch. I could hear children’s television playing through the screen door. I knocked.

The door opened.

A young woman stood there. She looked to be in her early thirties. She had dark hair pulled back in a messy clip, and she was holding a heavy toddler on her hip. He was wearing a blue fleece onesie.

I looked at the child.

On his right temple, just below the hairline, was a distinct, heart-shaped birthmark.

My mother-in-law always called that birthmark “the family stamp.” Mark has the exact same mark on his right temple. His father had it too.

The woman smiled at me. She looked tired, but her eyes were kind. “Oh, hi. Can I help you?”

I couldn’t draw a breath. I felt like the air had been sucked out of the county. I managed to speak, but my voice sounded like dry paper. “Is… is Mark here?”

Her smile grew warmer. She looked me up and down, noticing my nice coat and my neat hair. “No, he’s at the office in Cleveland today. He won’t be down until tomorrow night.” She paused, her eyes widening in realization. “Wait. Are you Sarah?”

I froze. My heart felt like it was hammering against my collarbone. “Yes. I’m Sarah.”

She laughed, a relieved, happy sound. “Oh my gosh, come in! Mark talks about you all the time. I’ve wanted to meet you for so long, but he always said you were too busy with your treatments. You must be the sister. He said you lived in the old family house in Parma.”

She stepped back, opening the door wider.

I didn’t move. I stood on the welcome mat. “I’m not his sister,” I said. I looked her straight in the eye. “I’m his wife.”

Her face didn’t just change. It collapsed. The color drained out of her skin so fast she looked blue in the porch light. Her grip on the toddler tightened, and the little boy let out a small, fussy cry.