“Then why did no one tell me when Tomás began?”
“I thought you knew more than you said.”
Esperanza frowned.
“You believed I was hiding the truth?”
“I believed you might be protecting Elena.”
“From what?”
“From losing her marriage. From gossip. From being judged for wanting a child. I did not know.”
Esperanza leaned back.
“And when Miguel came?”
Paloma’s voice became quieter.
“By then, I knew something was wrong.”
“But you still said nothing.”
“I asked questions.”
“Not to me.”
“No.”
The admission hung in the car.
Mother Caridad looked out the window, allowing the conversation to remain between them.
Esperanza closed her hand around the white stone.
“I trusted you.”
“I know.”
“That is not an accusation.”
“It should be.”
Esperanza shook her head.
“It is a fact.”
Doctor Paloma swallowed.
“I am sorry.”
Esperanza did not answer immediately.
Outside, the road climbed through a line of olive trees.
At last, she said, “I do not know yet what forgiveness will require.”
Paloma nodded.
“I understand.”
“But I do know this: I need you to stop deciding what I can bear.”
The doctor’s eyes shone in the mirror.
“I will.”
It was not absolution.
But it was the first honest promise between them.
San Aurelio was smaller than Mother Caridad expected.
The town rested near the sea, though the water was hidden behind a line of pale cliffs. Its streets were narrow, its houses painted in faded blues and yellows. Laundry moved in the breeze above small courtyards.
They found the address on a quiet lane near the edge of town.
The house from the photograph stood behind a low stone wall.
Its shutters were green now instead of white, but the front steps were the same. A lemon tree grew beside the window where the man with the dark ring had once been standing.
Esperanza remained in the car.
Mother Caridad did not hurry her.
Doctor Paloma turned off the engine.
For several seconds, they listened to the ticking sound of the cooling motor.
“That is the house,” Esperanza said.
“Yes,” Paloma replied.
“I remember the lemon tree.”
