Five years after the divorce, I returned to the country with my fiancée and found my ex-wife cleaning the floor at the airport. I was about to approach her to say hello when my fiancée went pale and whispered, “What is she doing here?” I said nothing, but hours later I opened an old family folder and discovered that our encounter had not been a simple coincidence.

“You were leaving for Canada.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“You were finally moving forward.”

“Mom.”

My voice sounded unfamiliar.

“Did you tell Elena not to contact me?”

She did not answer.

Aunt Rebecca looked down.

That told me enough.

I stood.

“Did you?”

Patricia finally looked at me.

“Yes.”

The room seemed smaller.

“What exactly did you say?”

“She was emotional.”

“What did you say?”

My mother exhaled.

“I told her you wanted a clean break.”

I stared at her.

“You told her that?”

“You did want a clean break.”

“I wanted a divorce.”

“You were fighting constantly.”

“That did not give you permission to hide my child from me.”

Patricia flinched.

“We didn’t know whether the pregnancy would even continue.”

I almost laughed.

Not because anything was funny.