ANNY
Fourteen months after Nikolina is born, a nurse places another daughter in my arms.
Lídia is warm, furious, and wonderfully loud. She has dark hair pressed against her head and one fist closed beneath her chin.
I cry before I can speak.
The nurse mistakes my tears for pain. “Would you like me to take her?”
“No.” I hold Lídia closer. “These are good tears.”
They are also complicated tears.
Joy does not erase the daughter who should be here. Missing Nikolina does not make the child in my arms less wanted. Both truths fit inside me without canceling each other.
Oliver sits beside the hospital bed. His eyes remain on Lídia as though looking away might cost us something.
“She has your mouth,” he says.
“She is ten minutes old.”
“I’m still right.”
I smile and place Lídia in his a
