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.

Because the sentence was so monstrous in its convenience.

“So you decided I shouldn’t know until what?”

She said nothing.

“Until there was a baby?”

Silence.

“Until Elena begged enough?”

Nothing.

“Until I left the country and it became easier for everyone to pretend?”

Aunt Rebecca stood.

“Adrian.”

I turned toward her.

“You knew?”

Her eyes filled with shame.

“Not immediately.”

“When did you know?”

“A few months later.”

“And you said nothing for five years.”

“I thought your mother had handled it.”

“Handled it?”

Rebecca looked toward Patricia.

“I was told Elena lost the baby.”

I stopped breathing.

“What?”

My mother closed her eyes.

Aunt Rebecca continued.

“Patricia told me there had been complications.”

I looked at my mother.

“Did Elena lose the baby?”

Patricia did not answer.

I walked toward her.

“Did she?”

“I don’t know.”

That answer was worse.

“You don’t know?”

“She stopped coming.”

“Because you told her I didn’t want her.”

Patricia’s voice rose.