Chapter 3 - The Woman Upstairs
The woman upstairs was not in our building.
She was in an assisted living residence outside Fort Lauderdale.
Her name was Teresa Molina.
Sara had saved her address beside a scanned photograph of a maternity ward staff Christmas party dated thirty-four years earlier.
Teresa stood in the back row wearing a paper crown.
Beneath the picture, Sara had written:
Retired nurse. Remembers Carmen. Afraid of Esteban.
I made an appointment before I could talk myself out of it.
First, I called an attorney.
Not my uncle’s firm.
Not anyone he recommended.
A colleague gave me the name of Naomi Price, who listened without interrupting and then asked whether I had eaten.
“No.”
“Do that before you drive anywhere.”
It was such a practical kindness that I nearly cried.
That afternoon, Leo’s caseworker, Marisol Vega, met us at home.
She reviewed the temporary placement, explained the next steps, and made clear that a deceased parent’s nomination did not settle permanent custody.
I told her about the possible biological connection.
“We can document that,” she said. “But we’ll make decisions around Leo’s needs, not around who has the strongest feelings today.”
For once, somebody’s caution felt respectful.
Alex moved into a furnished rental nearby.
For the immediate transition, Marisol approved a written caregiving plan that kept Leo’s routine stable while allowing me to remain in the house. Assessments and family tracing would continue.
Nothing about it was simple.
At least it was honest.
The following morning, I met Teresa.
She was eighty-two, with silver hair and hands twisted by arthritis.
When I entered, she dropped the knitting in her lap.
“Oh,” she whispered.
I stopped beside the door.
“You knew my mother?”
“Which one?”
The question cut through every prepared sentence.
“Both, apparently.”
She covered her mouth.
For several seconds, the only sound was an air conditioner clicking on.
“I hoped Sara would bring you,” she said.
I sat down.
“Sara died.”
Teresa began to cry before I explained how.
I waited.
Grief had already taken enough from both of us. I would not hurry hers to reach my answers.
Eventually, she reached toward a drawer.
“Give me the blue folder.”
Inside were copies of old schedules, a photograph, and handwritten notes.
“I kept things I should have brought forward years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Your birth mother was Elena Vidal. She was twenty. She worked at a bakery and came in alone.”
Vidal.
Sara had carried our mother’s name all her life.
I had not even known it existed.
“Why were we separated?”
“Carmen’s adoption application was for one infant. Your uncle handled the arrangements through a private intermediary.”
Teresa swallowed.
“Elena wanted both of you placed together if she couldn’t keep you. She was struggling. She was told there was a family willing to take both girls.”
“But there wasn’t.”
“No.”
My hands tightened around the folder.
“What did Carmen know?”
“I can’t tell you everything she knew. I can tell you she came to the hospital expecting one baby. Later, I saw her with two bracelets in her hand.”
Teresa looked toward the window.
“She was crying.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“I questioned the paperwork. My supervisor said consent had been handled. Esteban told me I was risking my job by interfering.”
“And Sara?”
“Placed separately. The first arrangement failed. After that, I lost track.”
I thought of my sister leaving half a sandwich untouched because another frightened child had given it to her.
“Did Elena know where we went?”
“She was given false information.”
“Is she alive?”
Teresa nodded.
“Sara found a possible address. She wanted confirmation before she raised your hopes.”
She handed me a folded page.
A town north of Tampa.
An apartment above a bakery.
I stared at the address.
Teresa touched my wrist.
“I’m sorry I let fear become thirty-four years.”
Outside, I sat in my car and called Naomi.
Then I called Alex.
He answered immediately.
“I need Sara’s attorney’s number.”
“Of course.”
“And Alex?”
“Yes?”
“You weren’t protecting me from the truth.”
May you like
I watched a woman help her elderly husband across the parking lot.
“You were deciding which losses I was allowed to know about.”
