Esperanza looked down at Miguel. The child’s eyes had opened, dark and trusting.
“There are pieces missing,” she said quietly.
“Pieces of what?”
“My memory.”
Lucía’s hand stopped beside the bread plate.
“What do you mean?”
Esperanza searched for words.
“There are mornings when I wake and feel as though I have forgotten a dream. Not an ordinary dream. Something important. I can almost see a room, or hear a voice, but then it vanishes.”
“Has this happened recently?”
“It has happened for years.”
“Why have you never told anyone?”
Esperanza gave a small, embarrassed shrug.
“I thought it was exhaustion. Then Tomás was born. Then Miguel. There was always something more urgent.”
Lucía’s expression softened, but concern remained in her eyes.
“You should tell Mother Caridad.”
“She already doubts me.”
“She does not doubt you.”
Esperanza looked toward the doorway again.
“She doubts the story I am able to give her.”
“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.
