Before we continue, I’d like to send a warm hello to everyone following along from the United States, Mexico, Colombia, Peru, Spain, Italy, Venezuela, Uruguay, Paraguay, Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, El Salvador, Ecuador, Bolivia, Chile, Argentina, Costa Rica, Cuba, Canada, France, Panama, Australia, Guatemala, Nicaragua, Honduras, and right here in Vietnam—especially all my friends in Ho Chi Minh City. Wherever you’re tuning in from today, drop a comment and let me know. Blessings to you all.
Now, back to the story.
The Santa Rosa Children’s Home sat on the edge of the city, surrounded by tall old acacias and an almost unnatural quiet.
Clara arrived the next morning, armed with an expired bar card, a folder of notes, and the stubborn determination of someone who has already outlived most of her fears.
Rosa Guzmán, the 70-year-old director, received her in a cramped office lined with children’s drawings.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, señora,” Rosa said, arms crossed. “Elena is under state protection. No unauthorized visitors.”
“I only want to talk about how she arrived here,” Clara replied calmly. “And what happened after she visited her father.”