Pause.

“No, not my mom.

Hannah.

My mom’s at work.” Pause.

“She’s also my mom.

It’s not complicated, Delia, it’s just two.”

I stood in a hallway in Coyoacán with my keys in my hand.

Because for nine years I had let a woman convince me that whatever it was in me that made a mother had been taken out in an operating room at four in the morning, and then for three months I had let myself believe that I had been outbid by a woman who could produce a child.