Eleven years

The children, by Eduardo Galeano

Eleven years ago, in Montevideo, I was waiting for Florencia at the door of the house.

She was very young; she walked like a little bear. I saw her very little. I stayed at the newspaper until late at night and in the mornings I worked at the University. I knew little about her. I kissed her when she was asleep, sometimes I brought her chocolates or toys.

Her mother was away that afternoon, and I was waiting at the door of the house for the bus to bring Florencia from the kindergarten. She arrived very sad. She did not speak. In the elevator, she pouted. Then she let the milk cooled in the bowl. She looked at the floor. I sat her on my lap and asked her to tell me. She shook her head. I caressed her, kissed her forehead.

A few tears escaped. With the tissue, I wiped her face. Then I asked her again: " Come on, tell me".

She told me that her best friend had told her that she didn’t love her. We cried together, I don’t know how long, hugging each other, there in the chair.

I felt the hurts that Florencia was going to suffer over the years and I wished that God existed and was not deaf, so that I could beg him to give me all the pain he had reserved for her.

Eleven years ago, I became pregnant for the first time. It was a desired and wanted pregnancy.

It was also a delayed pregnancy because I wanted to fulfill a couple of dreams before becoming a mother. I knew my life would change forever when I had a child, although I never imagined it would change how it did.

In June 2012, Ana, my first daughter, was born, and today, also 11 years ago, Ana died.

The pregnancy was complicated from the beginning, I was in and out of the hospital for the five months it lasted, taking every measure to carry the pregnancy to term. But we couldn’t. Ana was an extremely premature baby. Her chances of living were almost nonexistent, yet she lived a few days – I like to think that she inherited that defiance towards what she was supposed to be able to achieve from me.

I always think of that story by Galeano and I think that in my case, for a brief moment, not only God existed and was not deaf, but that he answered me yes and complied. He gave me all the pain he had reserved for her.