— What have I done? What have I done?
But her tears did not move Natalie. Still holding her daughter close, as if afraid this might all disappear, she said firmly:
— Eleanor, it’s time for you to go home. And please spare my daughter and me any future visits.
The older woman got to her feet slowly. Natalie noticed that in just one day she seemed to have aged ten years. Eleanor picked up her purse and headed for the door. Then she turned back and said:
— Tomorrow I’ll handle the paperwork and send over the birth certificate. But I’ll need the hospital record you found, and your passport.
Natalie handed over the documents without a word.
— Don’t bring them back yourself. Send them by courier.
Edward had not dared enter the room the whole time. After his mother left, he let himself hope Natalie might forgive him and they might still remain a family. But she calmly set the baby in the playpen and turned to him.
— You can go too. I’ll pack your things tomorrow. You can pick them up in the evening. Right now, leave. My daughter and I need time alone.
Sensing there was no point arguing, Edward lowered his shoulders — suddenly looking smaller somehow — and walked toward the door.
— Natalie, we’ll talk tomorrow, right? — he asked, pleading.
— About what? You made your choice when you gave up your daughter. We’re not revisiting it.
A month later Natalie could no longer imagine life without her green-eyed miracle. She gave every minute gladly to her daughter, trying to make up for lost time. Edward still tried to repair things, and sometimes her heart softened for a moment. But then reason stepped in and reminded her: someone who betrays you once will do it again.
One day, when spring had washed the streets with rain and rolled through with the last of the thunder before giving way to early summer, Natalie was walking with her daughter in the park. Camila babbled happily in her own language and clapped with delight whenever pigeons took flight or children ran past. Her mother smiled, full of quiet joy. Then behind her she heard a familiar voice.
— Hey, beautiful, don’t rush off. Let me see my namesake. You did call her Camila, didn’t you?
