This is the place from which his mother fled. There are flowers in the windows, and billowing curtains. In the winter it must be covered in fog. Like a mirage; it looks close, but then you walk and walk and you never get there. Now I feel like I could keep going for hours. I can’t feel my legs or my feet. He’s not outside; maybe he’s inside with Marco. During the climb I planned my revenge. I dried my tears. He’ll never see me cry again. No more crying, yelling, complaining, making excuses. I must stand firm if I want to keep my baby. On the way there, I talked to the couple and their young daughter. “How old are you?” “What class are you in?” “You’re a good walker.” “She’s used to it—we’ve always taken her with us, even when she was little.” “How clever of you.” They asked me about Marco. I answered as if everything were perfectly normal. “How far are we from the lodge?” I’d like to ask after every turn, but I don’t. I grin and bear it; I’m strong, and the hatred I feel sustains me.
