We both sat in silence for a while, lost in our own thoughts. Despite my protestations that whatever Beatriz told me would not upset me, given the story she‘d just related, it was an impossible task. Because somewhere in my veins ran Cristina‘s blood. Was I too as flawed as she was?

‘Maia, I know what you are thinking,’ Beatriz said suddenly as she dried her eyes and surveyed me. ‘And let me assure you that from what I have seen of you and from what Yara has told me, there is not one iota of your character that reminds me of your mother. They say that genes skip generations and you truly are the living image of my mother, Izabela. And from what everyone told me of her, very like her in personality.’

I knew Beatriz was trying to be kind. And yes, right from the start, from when I‘d first heard about my great-grandmother and seen how physically alike we were, I had felt a natural empathy towards her. But it still didn‘t change the fact that my birth mother had been as she was.

‘So, if you never saw Cristina again, how do you know she had me?’ I asked, wildly grasping at straws in the hope that there was some mistake. And that I wasn‘t after all related to this family. Or my mother.

‘I wouldn‘t have known, my dear, had it not been for a friend of mine who worked as a volunteer at one of the many orphanages in Rio around that time. Most of the babies came from the favelas and my friend happened to be there when Cristina brought you in. She didn‘t give her name, just left the baby and ran, as many of the mothers did. It took my friend a few days to realise where she recognised Cristina from – apparently she was painfully thin and had lost some of her teeth.’ Beatriz‘s voice cracked with emotion. ‘But eventually, she remembered. She came to see me to tell me you‘d been left with a moonstone necklace which, when she described it, I realised was the one I‘d given my daughter. Immediately, I went up to the orphanage with Evandro to claim you and to bring you home, so that I and your grandfather could take care of you as our own. But even though it had been less than a week since you‘d been brought in, you‘d already gone. My friend was very surprised because, as she said, there were a large number of newborn infants in the orphanage at the time. It often took many weeks for a baby to be adopted – if they ever were. Perhaps it was because you were a very pretty baby, my dear,’ Beatriz smiled.

‘So,’ I said shakily, knowing I had to ask the question that was hanging on my lips, ‘does that mean your friend saw my adoptive father?’

‘Yes,’ Beatriz confirmed, ‘and also the woman who came with him to collect you. My friend assured me that they both seemed very kind. Inevitably, Evandro and I pleaded with her to tell us where you‘d been taken, but she was only a volunteer and wasn‘t able to provide such information.’