Fiona took a long breath, the kind you take before a plunge into icy water. “Elena was not your sister. She was your mother.”
For the first time that day, the sun broke through the clouds, slanting gold across the graves. Fiona leaned her head on Rosa’s shoulder.
And so, sitting between two graves—one of a daughter she lost, and one of a daughter she almost lost to silence—Fiona began to speak. Not of confession anymore, but of remembering. And for the first time in thirty years, the weight in her chest began to lift.
Rosa felt her throat close. “She drowned?”
Her daughter, Rosa, stood a few steps behind, arms wrapped around herself. “Mama Fiona,” she whispered, “why did you bring me here? You said you’d tell me the truth today.”
Fiona let out a sound—half sob, half laugh. “You’re not angry?”
The silence that fell was heavier than the rain clouds. Rosa blinked, certain she’d misheard. “That’s impossible. You raised me. You’re my mama.”
