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Angela sat on a hard bench outside Mother Superior’s office, shivering with fear, and with the chill of winter seeping through

the tall, wavy-glass windows of the hall. The weak, cold light added a somber blue tint to the austere space. She eyed the

array of pictures and icons on display, most of them depicting the Virgin Mary.

Now that she herself was unmarried and unexpectedly pregnant, Angela was skeptical of Mary’s story. What had Mary said to

convince her critics that what had happened was not her fault? Did they believe her when she said that she’d seen visions?

Did they agree that her pregnancy was a miracle?

Angela could claim neither. She knew that what had happened to her was definitely not a miracle. Unlike Mary, Angela would

never be the subject of praise and prayers, hymns and tributes, and timeless art treasures. She could only hope there was

a way out of this horrible situation.

Gran had arrived on the city bus from the south end, but her purpose was not to pay a visit to Angela. She had come to meet

with Sister Gerard and Sister Rotrude. Angela could hear them talking at length, the conversation punctuated by Gran’s Irish

outbursts, most of them sounding like a cross between a curse and a wail.

Stepping carefully so as not to cause the floorboards to creak, Angela pressed her ear to the door.

“What am I to do?” Gran begged. “Her own fallen mother was a floozy who never wanted her, and now this.”

A searing pain ripped into Angela’s heart. She was never wanted. Never.

“Whatever in all that’s holy am I to do now?” Gran continued.

“There, there,” Sister Rotrude said. “’Tis not your fault the girl has fallen pregnant.”

Fallen . Angela grimaced. Fallen. As if she’d tripped and got knocked up by some freak accident. She kept listening, waiting for

her grandmother to demand to know who had caused the pregnancy, who had caused her to fall, but the question was not asked. Gran didn’t seem to concern herself with that.

After she’d caught Angela and Tanya together, Gran had wrung her hands and lamented that Angela would never have babies of

her own until the nuns at the Good Shepherd “fixed” her. And once she was cured, Gran was absolutely certain that she would

want to marry and have babies one day. As if a girl’s sole purpose was to marry and have a baby.

Well, apparently the baby-making part of her had been “fixed.” But instead of being overjoyed, Gran was clearly mortified

by the news. When she’d arrived this morning, she could barely look at her granddaughter, although she’d done a double take

when she noticed Angela’s shorn blond hair.

After the shearing, Angela had studied her image in the dormitory window at night, which was the only thing that approximated

a mirror. She wasn’t so sure she looked like Twiggy, although that wouldn’t be bad at all. She thought the short hair made

her look vaguely like Mary Martin as Peter Pan. Angela had seen the movie when she was a little girl, and she had been utterly

enchanted by the sprightly, boyish girl leading a group of kids to Neverland.

The nuns spoke in low tones, their voices meant to soothe. Angela couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Then there

was a footstep, and she jumped out of the way just in time to pretend she hadn’t been eavesdropping. The door swung open,

framing the imposing office of the prioress.

“Inside with you, Agnes,” Sister Rotrude ordered, gesturing at a ladder-backed chair.

Angela sat and held herself rigid, hands clutching the seat to still their trembling.

Gran rocked back and forth on a cushioned chair. Lines of hardship and uncompromising faith etched her face, and she clutched

her rosary, the beads slipping through her fingers as if seeking absolution not only for Angela but for her own shame and

devastation.

The nuns, in their habits as dark as secrets, stood like silent sentinels, their faces shrouded in shadow. Then Sister Gerard

took a seat at her massive desk and regarded Angela with a look that was soft but unyielding, weighted by a decision that

had already been made.

As the Mother Superior began to speak, her voice was quiet, yet it carried the irrevocable force of conviction. “We’ve made

a plan for you,” she said. “Your baby will be blessed to find a home with a family of faith, one that will raise him—or her—in

the grace of our Lord.”

Angela’s gaze darted around the room, searching for an ally, a reprieve, something to hold on to. But all she saw were the

hard-eyed expressions of the three women, the gilt-edged tomes on the bookshelves, the crucifixes that hung heavily on the

walls, and the massive reliquary on its four silver claws, reputed to house the very teeth of St. Apollonia, or so said one

of the senior girls in the laundry.

She swallowed past the knot in her throat and tried to breathe past the panic rising in her chest. “Don’t I get to have a

say in this decision?” Her voice was so soft that she almost couldn’t hear herself.

Sister Rotrude fixed her with a heated glare. “You’re a child, still, and this is your chance to find redemption. For you,

and for your baby.”

“You just said it,” Angela said, her voice sharpening with anger. “ My baby. My child. I’m the one who gets to decide—”

“Nonsense,” Gran cut in. “The good sisters’ offer is a vast and sacred blessing. ’Tis a chance for you to do what you must

for the love of the Lord and our family honor. One day, you’ll have the chance to continue your life as though this...

as though you had never made this terrible mistake.”

Mistake. Mistake. Angela wasn’t sure what her grandmother was referring to. Was it a mistake to want to be close to Tanya, or was her mistake

in getting caught? Was it a mistake to do as she was told by the doctor, a man who claimed he knew the way to “heal” her?

Should she have fought him the way Mairin had?

“What of the doctor?” she demanded, emboldened by anger and fear. “ He is responsible for making me pregnant.”

The word pregnant was forbidden, and when she said it aloud, all three women reacted, stiffening and gasping. Then she looked at Gran’s face,

and realized her grandmother had no idea what she was talking about. Angela turned to address the prioress. “Did you not tell

her, then? Didn’t you explain that I’m pregnant by the doctor?”

Gran fanned herself with her neck scarf. “That cannot be so.”

“Can’t it?” Angela demanded. “I got pregnant after you forced me to come here. How do you suppose that happened? Was it an immaculate conception?”

Rotrude struck her on the ear so hard that her head rang with the blow.

“Lies and blasphemy,” said Sister Gerard. “You’ll do penance for a week, girl. Longer, in fact.” The nun regarded Gran with

a deeply pious, sincere expression. “Mrs. Denny, I’m very sorry to tell you that your granddaughter brought this upon herself

with her seductive ways. A temptress, a seductress, sneaking off with a man she refuses to name, perhaps a delivery driver

or layman who works around the place. She could have been with a boy during social time on cathedral Sunday.”

“I did no such thing,” Angela shot back.

“’Tis the work of the devil,” her grandmother said. “I shall pray for your eternal, misbegotten soul every day of my life.”

Angela knew she would never get them to admit the truth. When she’d finally found the courage to tell the nuns she was pregnant

by the doctor, their denial had been so swift and practiced that she got the impression she was not the first—nor the last—of

his victims.

She yearned for this whole episode to be erased from her memory.

From her soul. She wished it had never happened.

But it had happened, and there would be a child, and she was expected to surrender it to strangers.

It was the only option presented to her.

And despite the fact that she was pregnant due to a hateful act by a hateful man, she felt a sense of grief so profound that she fought an impulse to scream, to plead, to clutch at the life within her and declare it her own.

Still, she didn’t know if she could ever separate the life inside her from the man whose seed had planted it there. The baby

would come, and she would always know it had been caused by a crime. Her mind twisted around the situation. Ready or not,

she would become a mother. And as a mother, she would see her child as a part of her heart. At the same time, she was terrified

that one day she might see her rapist in the face of that very same child. Would she be able to separate the child from its

paternal side?

She was expected to comply with this plan. Refusal was not an option. But in the smallest corner of her heart, she made space

for a silent vow to remember, to hold on to the memory of the innocent person she would never know. And then, in another corner

of her heart, she harbored the hope that she would find a way to keep this child, to raise it in a world of love and acceptance,

not fear and intolerance.

As tears burned her eyes, she fought for breath. The room felt as if it were closing in, the very air heavy with expectations

and silent judgment. Angela had nothing more to say.

Gran promised to pray endless novenas, begging for the child to be given a proper home. The nuns were businesslike but reassuring,

letting her know that they had decades of experience with the sort of tragic circumstances that had befallen Angela. They

promised Gran that this “unfortunate situation” would fade into a dark and distant memory, as if it had never happened.

Later, Angela lay on her cot in the dormitory, staring at the ceiling. Her stomach churned with a life of its own, except

it wasn’t her stomach. The terrible sensation occurred lower down, where she used to get period cramps. Only this didn’t feel

like period cramps.

“What’s the matter?” Denise plunked herself down on the edge of the cot. “You don’t look so good.”