“I spent a long time trying to hide her,” Adriana continued. “Not because I was ashamed of her. Never because of that.”
Her voice caught. She paused, swallowed, and went on.
“I hid her because I was afraid of what people would say. I was afraid of what people would think about me. About my mother. About the life we had. About the life I was trying to build.”
Behind me, no one moved.
The woman who had whispered that cruel sentence—the one about Adriana turning out just like me—was silent now.
I didn’t turn around. I didn’t have to.
I knew that kind of voice. I had heard versions of it for eighteen years. In grocery store lines. In school offices. In church basements. From neighbors who smiled too tightly. From people who were always sure hardship was a character flaw.
Adriana lifted her chin.
