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 miserable with that woman!”

“That woman was my wife for seven years.”

“And you divorced her.”

“That does not erase a pregnancy.”

My hands were shaking.

I walked away before I said something I could not take back.

Vanessa appeared at the top of the stairs.

“What’s happening?”

Nobody answered.

She came down slowly.

Her eyes moved from my mother to Rebecca and finally to me.

“Adrian?”

I looked at her.

“Did you know Elena was pregnant after our divorce?”

Vanessa stopped.

Only for a fraction of a second.

But after the airport, I had become sensitive to fractions of seconds.

“No.”

Too fast.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

I studied her face.

She looked offended.

Not confused.

Offended.

As if the question itself were dangerous.

My mother stepped between us verbally.

“Adrian, enough.”

I turned toward her.

“No.”

For the first time in years, I saw fear in my mother’s expression.

Not anger.

Fear.

I picked up my keys.

“Where are you going?” Vanessa asked.

“To find Elena.”

Patricia immediately said, “Don’t.”

I stopped.

There it was again.

Too quick.

Too urgent.