The bus ride had dragged on for twelve endless hours, but Rosa didn’t care about the ache in her back or the stiffness in her sixty-year-old legs.
Resting in her lap was a small cloth bag—inside it, the soft cream-colored blanket she had spent months knitting for her first grandchild.
The excitement carried her through hunger, through thirst, through exhaustion.
Ever since her son, Daniel, told her he was going to be a father, she had lived for this day.
When she finally reached the city hospital—a towering, cold structure of glass and steel—Rosa paused at the entrance, smoothed her hair in the reflection, and stepped toward reception with her heart pounding like a drum.
But when she reached the maternity hallway, her smile froze.
Daniel wasn’t waiting with open arms.
He stood at the far end of the corridor, pacing nervously, rubbing the back of his neck the same way he used to when he broke something as a child.
“Daniel!” Rosa called softly, choosing to ignore his anxious posture. “I came as fast as I could. How’s Victoria? How’s the baby? Can I see him?”