“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” Esperanza said. “But it feels the same when you are the person without answers.”
Tomás pushed his wooden spoon toward her.
“Horse for Mama.”
Esperanza accepted it and smiled.
“Thank you.”
He leaned against her arm, satisfied.
Whatever else remained uncertain, these children were real. Their laughter, their hunger, their warm hands, their sleepy weight against her shoulder—none of that could be questioned.
Yet for the first time, Esperanza wondered whether loving them had made her too willing not to ask how they had come to be.
Doctor Paloma arrived before ten.
Her gray motorcar stopped just beyond the convent gate, and Sister Beatriz hurried to admit her. The doctor stepped inside carrying a black medical case, her hair pinned beneath a simple hat.
Mother Caridad waited in the entry hall.
“You came quickly.”
“You sounded worried.”
“I am worried.”
Paloma removed her gloves.
“Where is Esperanza?”
“In the kitchen with the children.”
“May I examine her in the infirmary?”
Mother Caridad nodded.
As they walked, the doctor’s gaze moved over the corridors with an attention that seemed too deliberate. She glanced at the locked linen room, the chapel passage, and the narrow staircase leading toward the unused guest quarters.
Mother Caridad noticed.
“You are looking for something.”
“I am remembering the layout.”
“You have visited us for eleven years.”
“I know.”
They reached the infirmary door.
Mother Caridad took the handkerchief from her pocket and unfolded it.
The strip of tape lay in the center.
Doctor Paloma stared at it.
“Is it yours?” Mother Caridad asked.
“It is ordinary surgical tape.”
“That was not my question.”
Paloma’s eyes lifted.
“It could have come from my case during an earlier visit.”
