“What things?”
“A room. A light. Sometimes a voice. I think it may be yours.”
The doctor closed her case halfway, then opened it again.
“Memories can become confused during periods of illness.”
“Was I ill?”
“You have fainted more than once.”
“Before my first pregnancy?”
Paloma did not respond.
Mother Caridad stepped closer.
“Doctor?”
Paloma glanced at the test.
“It is positive.”
The room became very quiet.
Esperanza lowered her eyes.
Although she had expected the answer, hearing it confirmed seemed to remove something from her strength. Her shoulders fell slightly.
Mother Caridad moved toward her.
“Are you unwell?”
“No.”
Esperanza’s voice trembled.
“I am only tired of being surprised by my own life.”
Mother Caridad sat beside her and took her hand.
For a moment, the mystery disappeared behind something simpler: a young woman who had carried more uncertainty than anyone should have been asked to bear alone.
“We will find the truth,” Mother Caridad said.
Esperanza looked at her.
“Will we still call it truth if it changes what we believe about one another?”
Mother Caridad tightened her hand around hers.
“Yes.”
Doctor Paloma turned away and began placing instruments into her case.
The click of each metal clasp sounded unusually loud.
Mother Caridad watched her.
“Paloma, we need to speak privately.”
“I expected that.”
Esperanza rose.
“No.”
Both women looked at her.
She stood unsteadily but with determination.
“If this concerns me, I will remain.”
“It may be difficult,” Paloma said.
“That does not make it less mine.”
Mother Caridad saw something new in Esperanza’s face. The softness was still there, but beneath it lived a firmness that motherhood had perhaps given her.
“Very well,” Mother Caridad said. “You will stay.”
Paloma closed her eyes for a moment.
Then she pulled the single wooden chair away from the wall and sat down.
“This did not begin three years ago,” she said.
At first, neither Mother Caridad nor Esperanza spoke.
Outside, Tomás laughed at something Sister Lucía had said. The sound drifted beneath the door, light and innocent.
Doctor Paloma placed both hands over the handle of her medical case.
“Six years ago,” she began, “before Esperanza took her final vows, she became seriously ill.”
Esperanza frowned.
“I do not remember that.”
“I know.”
Mother Caridad looked at the doctor.
“What illness?”
“Severe anemia, fever, and exhaustion. She had been caring for Sister Magdalena during the influenza outbreak. Esperanza refused to rest. One night, she collapsed near the chapel.”
Mother Caridad searched her memory.
“I remember an illness, but not that it was so serious.”
“You were away at the diocesan meeting. Mother Inés was still alive then.”
The name changed the air in the room.
Mother Inés had led the convent before Caridad. She had been disciplined, private, and deeply respected. She had died five years earlier after a brief illness and was buried in the small cemetery beyond the orchard.
Mother Caridad’s expression hardened with concentration.
“What did Mother Inés do?”
“She asked me to treat Esperanza here.”
“That is ordinary.”
“Not entirely.”
Paloma looked at Esperanza.
“During your fever, you spoke about your family.”
“My family?”
“You said you had a sister.”
Esperanza’s face changed.
“I had a sister?”
“You have a sister,” Paloma corrected gently. “At least, you did six years ago.”
Esperanza stood so suddenly that the bed frame creaked.
“That cannot be true.”
“Sit down,” Mother Caridad said softly.
“No. My parents died when I was young. I was raised by my aunt. I was told I had no brothers or sisters.”
“Who told you that?” Paloma asked.
“My aunt.”
“What was her name?”
“Rosa Valdés.”
Paloma nodded as though confirming something long suspected.
“Rosa was not your aunt.”
Esperanza stared at her.
Mother Caridad rose too.
“Explain.”
“She was your mother’s cousin. After your parents died, you and your younger sister were separated. Rosa took you. Another relative took the younger child.”
