Esperanza pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Why would no one tell me?”
“I cannot answer that.”
“But you knew?”
“Not at first. During your fever, you repeated a name—Elena. Mother Inés recognized it.”
Mother Caridad’s eyes narrowed.
“How?”
“Because Elena had written to the convent.”
The doctor opened a side compartment in her case and removed a folded sheet of paper.
It was old, worn at the creases, and sealed inside a transparent protective sleeve.
She held it out.
Mother Caridad accepted it but did not open it.
“You have carried this with you?”
“For years.”
“Why?”
“Because Mother Inés made me promise not to give it to Esperanza unless certain circumstances arose.”
Esperanza’s voice was barely audible.
“What circumstances?”
Paloma looked at her.
“If you began to remember.”
The young nun sat down again.
Mother Caridad unfolded the paper.
The handwriting was uneven, as though the writer had paused often.
Dear Ana,
I do not know whether they still call you by that name. I have been told you entered the convent and may never wish to hear from the life you had before. I will respect that if it is your choice, but I need you to know that I am alive.
My name is Elena, and I believe I am your sister.
I have spent years searching for you. I found Rosa only after she became ill. She admitted that we were separated after our parents died because neither household could afford two children. She said she told you I had died because she feared you would leave her to find me.
I do not blame you for not searching. You did not know.
I am married now. My husband is named Gabriel. We have tried to have children, but the doctors say it may not happen for us. Still, my reason for writing is not to ask anything from you. I only want the chance to meet you once and tell you that you were never alone in the world.
Your sister,
Elena
Mother Caridad lowered the letter.
Esperanza looked as though the floor had shifted beneath her.
“My name was Ana?”
“Yes,” Paloma said.
“Why do I not remember her?”
“You were very young when you were separated. Perhaps four or five.”
“Did I meet her after she wrote?”
Paloma hesitated.
“Yes.”
Mother Caridad’s head lifted sharply.
“When?”
“During the weeks after your illness.”
“Inside the convent?”
“In the old guest parlor.”
Mother Caridad felt anger rise, but she kept her voice controlled.
“I was never told.”
“Mother Inés believed it should remain private until Esperanza decided what she wanted.”
Esperanza gripped the edge of the bed.
“What did I decide?”
The doctor’s face softened.
“You wanted to help her.”
“With what?”
Paloma did not answer at once.
And in that pause, Mother Caridad understood why the medical tape had frightened her.
She looked at Esperanza, then at the positive test on the tray.
“Her sister could not have children,” she said slowly.
Paloma nodded.
Esperanza stared between them.
“No.”
“Esperanza—”
“No,” she repeated, but there was no anger in the word. Only disbelief. “You are saying that I agreed to carry a child for someone else?”
“You agreed to consider it.”
“The children are Elena’s?”
“Biologically, that was the intention.”
The words hung between them.
From the corridor came the soft murmur of Sister Lucía singing to Miguel.
Esperanza looked toward the door.
“Intention?”
Doctor Paloma lowered her gaze.
“The first procedure was performed six years ago.”
Mother Caridad blinked.
“Six years?”
“It was unsuccessful.”
Esperanza’s fingers trembled.
“I remember nothing.”
“You became frightened afterward,” Paloma said. “Not because anyone forced you. Because you were uncertain whether your decision had come from love, guilt, or the fevered need to repair a family you had just discovered.”
Mother Caridad stepped forward.
“Then it should have ended.”
“It did.”
“But the pregnancies began three years later.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Paloma reached into her case again and removed a small notebook bound in dark leather.
It was not a medical record. The pages were filled with dates, initials, and short handwritten entries.
“Mother Inés kept this,” she said. “After her death, I found it among the records she asked me to preserve.”
Mother Caridad did not take the notebook.
“You are avoiding the answer.”
“I am trying to give it in the right order.”
“Then stop arranging the truth as though you own it.”
