We stay in Geneva for two days.
Not because two days resolves thirty years nothing resolves thirty years cleanly or quickly but because two days is enough to begin. Enough to read the hundred and forty pages. Enough to ask questions and receive answers. Enough to sit together at dinner in a quiet Geneva restaurant and share the first meal containing everyone who should have been at the same table decades ago.
My mother and Irina.
That is the thing I watch most carefully over those two days: the careful architecture of two women who are mother and daughter and are meeting as adults. The most complicated version of that relationship. There is no shared childhood between them, no accumulated history of ordinary days. Only the present moment, the missing years behind it, and the independent
