Olivia winced at an unexpected wave of grief for Rory. She would never have the chance to build such a long-lasting relationship with him. How much harder would it have been to lose him after forty years? “What did you do after the baby?” she asked.
“I was fortunate to have a great-aunt who took me in. She lived in Montreal and spoke more French than English, but we managed to get along. I worked for her husband in his printing shop, which is where I met Henry.”
“How did you end up in Toronto?”
“Henry’s family was here, and he wanted to move back. He decided to open his own print shop, which did very well.” She fingered the necklace at her throat. “Eventually we were blessed with a son and, for the most part, led a happy life. Still, there always remained a void within me that never went away.”
Olivia pressed a hand to her chest. “Your first child.”
Ruth nodded. “Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what became of her. All I could ever do was trust her to the Lord and pray she had a happy life too.”
Olivia held back the bitter words that sprang to her tongue. How could Ruth trust God? Where was He when these babies were snatched from their mothers’ arms?
“It saddens me greatly,” Ruth went on, “that as a society we still haven’t learned from our mistakes. That young women and children are treated with such callousness.”
“Or worse.” Olivia hadn’t told Ruth the entirety of her horrific experience in the reformatory. Certain details were better left unsaid.
Ruth blinked in the sunlight, seeming to collect herself. “Have you considered trying to find out what happened to your son?”
“There’s no point.” Olivia gripped her fingers together until her bones ached. “The Children’s Aid worker made it clear that I wasn’t entitled to any information about Matteo. That I no longer had any rights to my son.” She closed her eyes against the shaft of pain in her chest. Would the agony of those words ever lessen?
“That’s so unfair.” Ruth reached over to pat her arm. “Am I correct in assuming you have nowhere to go now? Or is there someone who will take you in as my aunt did for me?”
Another wave of hopelessness threatened to engulf her, but Olivia pushed it back. “There’s no one. That’s why I was in the church, working up the nerve to approach the minister for help.”
Ruth pulled herself up tall, her regal bearing returning. “Then you would be doing me a great favor if you would consider staying here with me. At least until you figure out your next move.”
Olivia exhaled slowly. Conflicting emotions warred within her. Would it hurt to stay a few more days until she could secure some type of work? The idea of being a live-in maid for someone like Ruth had filtered through her thoughts. That way she’d have a place to sleep, food to eat, and a modicum of respectability—as long as any potential employer never learned of her past. “I would appreciate staying a little longer. Just until I can find a way to support myself.”
“Wonderful.”
Ruth’s eyes brightened in a way that solidified Olivia’s fears about being Ruth’s raison d’être. That was more responsibility than she could bear in her current fragile state.
“I don’t wish to sound ungrateful,” Olivia said, “but you need to understand that I cannot be your salvation. You must find your own reason to live.”
Ruth only gave her an enigmatic smile.
Olivia set her jaw, her stubborn streak rearing its head. After being abused both physically and mentally these many months, she was tired of trying to live up to other people’s expectations. Tired of letting everyone down when she failed to meet them.
From now on, she would worry only about herself, at least until she could safely put one foot in front of the other again.
4
Darius entered the auto repair shop, his nose wrinkling at the overpowering odor of grease and motor oil. He pulled his briefcase tighter to his side, loath to get any dirt on the new leather or on his good clothes.
A black sedan sat in the first bay, its hood raised. Darius strode around to the front bumper. Denim-clad legs and worn work boots stuck out from under the chassis, and the clank of tools echoed in the garage.
“Hello, Papá.”
The noise ceased, and the rest of his father’s torso appeared, followed by a face blackened with sweat and grime. “Darius. What brings you by?” He pulled himself to his feet and reached for a rag, dragging it over his face. His unruly dark hair stood up in tufts, his overalls frayed and stained.
Darius’s gaze dropped to the perpetual black under his father’s fingernails, and his gut tightened. “I needed to speak to you without Mamá around.”
The smile faded from his father’s weathered features. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Best to just get it out. “I want you to stop teaching Sofia Greek words. She’s going to start school in the fall, and I won’t have the other kids making fun of her.”
As expected, his father’s face hardened. “My granddaughter will learn Greek. She will learn her family’s traditions.”
“No, she won’t. She will fit in with the other children in her class and give them no cause for bullying.” Memories of his own school days, ones he fought to keep buried, burst to the surface. The taunts of the other boys. The constant humiliation. The frequent beatings. “Sofia is Canadian, and she will act like a Canadian.”
“Canadian is good. But she is also Greek. She will learn of her heritage.” His father wiped off his wrench with vicious strokes.
“How can you say that after what happened to Selene? Do you want Sofia to suffer a similar fate?” Darius’s fingers tightened into fists at the mere mention of the hatred that had incited violence against Selene and her parents. Every time he thought of
