“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.”
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.
