Rosa was crying now, silent tears mixing with rain. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
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.”
Fiona sat down on the wet grass, and Rosa, numb, sat beside her.
The rain had turned the cemetery path to mud, but Fiona didn’t feel the cold seeping through her thin shoes. She stood before two gravestones—her husband’s, and the small, weathered one beside it. The name “Elena” was nearly erased by years of moss.
Rosa was quiet for a long time. The rain began to lighten. Finally, she reached over and took her mother’s hand—the hand that had buttoned her coats, wiped her tears, held her tight during thunderstorms.
“Mama Fiona,” Rosa said softly. “You’re still my mama.”
