When my daughter arrived to pick Eli up an hour later, I was still sitting on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall. I hid the photo and the note in my pocket.

How could I look at my daughter, a woman who absolutely idolized her late father, and tell her that she has a half-brother named Marcus out there in the world?

How do I dismantle the legacy of a man who is no longer here to defend himself or answer for his deceit? It has been three days since the watch was opened. I haven’t slept. I have spent hours scouring old internet records, local directories, and social media, searching for a brunette woman and a boy named Marcus who would be in his early thirties by now.

The anger I feel is a living, breathing thing inside my chest, burning hotter than my grief ever did. I want to scream at him. I want to throw the ring and the glasses into the river. But more than anything, I want to find Marcus.

Because if my husband’s final, hidden wish was for his son to know he was loved, then I am going to find him. I am going to look this young man in the eye, and I am going to introduce myself as the wife of the man who abandoned us both.