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Isla’s Point of View
Carla’s passport arrived on a Tuesday.
Inside the manila envelope was a burgundy booklet the size of my palm, and inside that, a photo of her newborn face, furious and unfocused, both fists up, outraged by a process she would never remember. I’d held her still for it myself.
The rule was no smiling.
Carla had gone well beyond the brief that day.
Luc’s arrived a week later. On the day it did, Sylvie left us.
She cried at the gate. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t, she said, and then did anyway, holding Luc against her shoulder a beat longer than the goodbye needed, breathing him in. She would visit. We told her there would always be a bed for her here and in Sicily, and we meant it, and she knew we meant it, which only made it worse.