Five years later.
The Quebec spring was a spectacle of resilience. After long months of immaculate snow and icy silence, life reclaimed its rights with exuberant vigor. In the garden of the white house now enlarged with a veranda and a swing set for Lucas the first buds were timidly appearing on the maple branches. The air smelled of damp earth and rising sap.
Marina, sitting on the veranda steps, watched the scene. Lucas, now a little boy with pink cheeks and laughing eyes, was chasing an improbable squirrel with cries of joy. His chestnut hair, fine as silk thread, flew in the wind. He was the very embodiment of life triumphing, far, very far from the dark circumstances of his conception.
"Watch out for the tulips, sweetheart!" she called, and her voice carried a gentle authority that
