John drove. I held Livia’s letter the entire way.
Natalie opened the door before I could knock twice.
“Camila,” she said.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
Old anger rose in me.
“You had no right.”
Natalie stayed in the doorway.
“Your daughter was eighteen, pregnant, and crying on my porch. I had every reason to close the door because of you. But she wasn’t you. So I opened it.”
“You should have called me.”
“She begged me not to.”
“And you listened?”
“Yes,” Natalie said. “Because someone needed to.”
Then Mitchell appeared behind her with a baby bottle in his hand.
For eleven months, I had turned him into a villain.
But he only looked tired.
“I asked her to call you,” he said.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because I married Livia. I don’t make choices for her.”
A baby cried inside the house.
Then Livia stepped into the hallway.
Her hair was shorter. Her face was thinner.
But it was her.
My daughter.
Holding a baby wrapped in yellow.
“Livia,” I whispered.
I stepped forward.
She stepped back.
“Please don’t yell,” she said.
Those three words hurt more than any accusation.
