‘Well, one day I discovered that my mother‘s emeralds – the necklace and earrings she had been given by her parents on her eighteenth birthday and which were worth a fortune – had disappeared from my jewellery box. Nothing else had been taken, so it was unlikely there‘d been a burglary at the Casa. By now, Cristina was spending almost all her time at the favela – her father and I deduced that there was some man involved – and I began to notice how her eyes seemed permanently glazed and the pupils enlarged. I consulted a doctor friend of mine, and he told me it was likely that Cristina was taking some form of drugs.’ Beatriz shivered at the thought. ‘And of course, when he told me how much such substances cost, it explained the missing emeralds. We believed she‘d stolen them, then sold them on to pay for her habit. By this time, her father and I were on the brink of divorce. Evandro had had enough and something had to give. Cristina had turned eighteen a couple of months before – I remember so vividly giving her my mother‘s moonstone for her birthday and her face falling because she knew it was not of any great value. That,’ Beatriz said, as tears came to her eyes for the first time, ‘was perhaps the most upsetting of all the terrible things she had done. It was my most precious possession, because I knew my father had once given it to my mother, and I discovered later that he had passed it on to me after she died. I gave it to my daughter, who could only wonder how many reais it would raise at a second-hand jewellery shop to fund her habit. Excuse me, Maia dear,’ she said as she fumbled for a handkerchief in the pocket of her robe.

‘Please, Beatriz, don‘t apologise. I understand how upsetting it must be to tell me this. But try and remember that you‘re describing a stranger to me, whether good or bad. I can‘t feel love for her, because I never knew her,’ I comforted her softly.

‘Well, I will now tell you that my husband and I decided we had to confront Cristina and warn her that unless she stopped taking drugs and stealing from us, we would have no choice but to ask her to leave the Casa. At the same time, we offered as much help and support as she needed, if only she would try to help herself. But by then she was addicted, and besides, her life was elsewhere, up in the hills with her favela friends. So eventually, we packed her suitcase and asked Cristina to leave our house.’

‘Beatriz, I‘m so sorry. That must have been unimaginably hard for you,’ I said, reaching towards her and squeezing her hand gently in sympathy.

‘It was,’ she agreed with a deep sigh. ‘We impressed upon her that if she ever wished to return to us and try to stop her habit, we would welcome her back with open arms. I remember her coming down the stairs with her suitcase as I stood by the front door. She walked straight past me, then turned back, just for a second. The hatred in her eyes for me at that moment has haunted me to this day. And’ – Beatriz was weeping openly now – ‘I‘m afraid to say, that is the last time I ever set eyes on my daughter.’