She emphasized that because she clearly did not want me imagining a new crisis.

“Is Willa my daughter?” I finally asked.

Elena went quiet long enough for the heating unit to switch on and off.

“I believe she is,” she said.

I shut my eyes.

In all the versions of that conversation I’d imagined, I had been prepared for outrage, denial, even laughter.

The simple answer carried more weight than any of them.

“Were you pregnant when you left Chicago?”