We searched the lobby for the face we’d seen in the polaroid taken so long ago—the face so like the woman my daughter had grown into. But that woman was nowhere to be seen. In her place was a woman grown old before her time; her long black hair prematurely gray, the steep angles of her cheeks given way to deep creases.
“¿Eres Claudia?” I asked. She nodded, unable to take her eyes off my daughter—her daughter. Our daughter.
Claudia approached and took our daughter’s hands into her own. She spoke a stream of rapid Spanish, so full of unfamiliar slang, and so choked with emotion I barely caught a word.
I watched our daughter’s face. What was she thinking—seeing at last the almond eyes she’d only seen in her own face?
“Mil gracias,” I had planned to say. “Mil mil gracias.” But sometimes words are not enough.
Apologies for missing last week and being late this week. We’ve been traveling and I’ve been away from the computer for more than a week.