1991
The onset of spring ushers in a world of possibility outside nature’s domain. Shell International offers Michael a senior position, but it will mean relocating the family to Egypt. Jobs like this are reserved for top engineers, so it is a great vote of confidence by Shell as well as an honor for Michael to be considered for such a senior post. I’m very proud of Michael’s accomplishments, as he has only been with the firm for five years.
“How do you feel about moving to Cairo?” Michael wants to know.
With barely a chance to process the news myself, I speak of the positives.
“I think it’s wonderful, Michael!” I say, embracing him.
“This is perfect for you, Tasoula. You are always tired and you look so pale. I want to take care of you. We don’t need your income now. You have me.”
“I’ll always have my own money. I’ll never be dependent. Even in Egypt I will find a way to work.”
“Tasoula, I don’t want you working this hard,” he says.
“Let’s enjoy the moment. We can always discuss this issue later!” I say, trying to avoid the subject.
As we toast to his wonderful offer, reality sets in. I must find the right manager to run Octagon in my absence, which I am confident I can do. All kinds of emotions surface at the thought of giving up my consulship. I believe that my fate is somehow tied to recovering the stolen artifacts, and relocating to Egypt will interfere with that. I found my voice in Holland, so I have mixed emotions and feel inner turmoil. I need to sit with the news and digest it before I can discuss it with Michael. The next morning over breakfast seems like the perfect time.
“You can serve your country from anywhere, Tasoula.”
“I understand, but I work so closely with Kyprianou and Papageorgiou here. We’re a great team, and that will change.”
“You’ll find other ways to serve your country with equal satisfaction.”
Michael is right. I will make the best of the situation and find purpose wherever I live. The work that I do for Cyprus is important to me, but supporting Michael is also important. Besides, how do I know that moving to Egypt is not my destiny?
There will be several months to prepare for our move, so I continue my work as consul and find a manager capable of taking the reins of Octagon in my absence. Several weeks later, Michael is about to leave for Malaysia, and I have a trip to the doctor planned, as I have not been feeling well.
“I’ll call you when I arrive in London to hear what the doctor has to say.”
“Of course,” I say. Today I feel as if I don’t have the stamina to drive myself to my doctor’s appointment, but I say nothing in order to avoid worrying him. My energy is low. I feel sluggish, as if I am coming down with a flu or virus of some kind. My clothing fits tighter as my desire to exercise fades. It is no surprise when the scale indicates that I’ve put on a few pounds. The doctor enters the examining room.
“I’m happy to inform you that your pregnancy test is positive, Mrs. Hadjitofi.”
“That explains the weight gain and exhaustion,” I say.
“True, but it doesn’t explain your other symptoms. I would like to give you an ultrasound if you agree.”
“Of course, whatever you think is best.”
The doctor smiles as he gently moves a wand over my abdomen.
“My dear, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for your symptoms.”
“What is it?”
“You are carrying identical twins who are sharing one placenta.”
“What?” I practically jump off the table hearing the news. “I can’t believe it! This is a dream,” I say. “I thought that the gene skips a generation.”
“Evidently not in Michael’s case. I’m going to give you some vitamins to start off with.” He hands me a referral to an obstetrician at the same hospital where Andreas was delivered. I am unable to contain my enthusiasm, smiling at everyone I come in contact with. I arrive back at my office just in time to receive Michael’s phone call.
“This is a miracle!” he cries. “You realize that you have just made my dream come true, don’t you? You have no idea how happy you’ve just made me. I love you so much,” he says before rushing off to catch his plane.
We are blessed! Being pregnant with identical twins is the greatest gift I can give to my husband, a twin himself. To be a twin is having a shared history with another from the moment of conception. Being married to a twin did take some adjusting on my part as I realized that Michael already had a life partner. It felt as if he and his brother, already their own unit, might view our relationship as an invasion of privacy. I came to understand that they are two separate parts of a whole and that our relationship and the relationship he has with his brother are distinct but equal. To be blessed with twin children with whom to identify is a longtime dream for Michael. As for me, I felt it to be a special privilege to give birth to two, when one is already such a miracle. It is the happiest day of my life.
Tulip season comes and goes in the Netherlands as we move into temporary housing in The Hague supplied by Shell. At this time our home in Wassenaar, because of the pending relocation, is rented and our valuables in storage. I am organizing our lives little by little so that by the time I deliver the twins early next year, all that will remain for us to do is to get on the plane.
I’m excited about the adventures that await us living in the land of the pharaohs, and I plan how I will spend my time there. Since the founding of a unified kingdom by King Narmer around 3150 B.C., Egypt has an enduring history of invasions, and probably more than any other country suffers from the looting and destruction of its own cultural history. I can use my repatriation experience to help their recovery efforts, as I believe the responsibility to protect it belongs to each of us. Or I can begin another software division and expand my company to the Middle East. I could also offer to serve my country as honorary consul to Cyprus in Egypt. Our new home will be closer to Cyprus, so flying there to visit family on the weekends will be feasible.
What I am not comfortable with is being a stay-at-home wife. Experiencing the kind of loss that I did in the war molded me into a fiercely independent woman who is never comfortable unless self-reliant. Michael understands my need for independence and does not try to change this about me.
Lately, we spend most of our time making plans for the arrival of our twins.
“We must dress them alike and have them attend the same schools,” says Michael. “My brother and I were separated at first as children, but we only thrived when they put us together. We pushed each other competitively in a positive way,” he says, smiling.
“You will be the best father, Michael,” I reply. His face is radiant. I’ve never seen him this excited about anything before.
“It could be difficult for Andreas as a singleton if our twins are boys. Seriously,” Michael continues, “he might feel excluded. If we have girls, it may be easier for him to adjust.”
“How lucky these children are to be born to you,” I say.
“Listen, I know exactly what it feels like to be a singleton,” reminding Michael that I am the expert in this area. “I will help Andreas adjust.”
The sound of the fax machine draws my attention to an image of an artifact coming through, a photograph of a John the Baptist icon. There is no cover page, and the fax does not state who the sender is. Examining the small and slightly blurred print more carefully, I see it is a page from the De Wijenburgh catalog. The provenance is listed as “Cyprus—first half of 15th century.” After a line or two of additional description it reads, “Literature—Hetty J. Roozemond, Ikon Gunt-Geist, Christies Icon 28th of October 1985, lot 199, Y. Petsopoulos, East Christian Art London 1987.”1
It must be from Van Rijn. He hasn’t been able to reach me so in order to draw me further into his game, he sends me a juicy tidbit of a clue, just enough information to pique my curiosity. He is testing me, and he’s right. I have to know more.
I forward the John the Baptist fax to Michael Kyprianou and instruct my assistant to schedule an appointment with Van Rijn when he calls again, which he does the following day. I choose a garment that I hope will camouflage my pregnancy.
Van Rijn is waiting in the lobby of the Hotel des Indes at our usual table.
“You are becoming more and more difficult for me to reach, Tazulaah,” he says, inspecting me with his glance. I wonder if he notices my weight gain.
“You may call me Tasoula, Van Rijn.”
“I like your style, Tazulaah,” he says.
“Petsopoulos,” I say.
Hearing the name amuses Van Rijn. “At last a Greek who questions the actions of another Greek,” he says as he lights a cigarette. I feel nauseated from the smell of his smoke but I don’t dare say anything.
“Your usual?”
“I’d rather have fresh orange juice today.”
Weight gain and reaction to scents could alert him of my pregnancy.
The waiter delivers the drinks and a small plate of chocolates. I have been able to give up coffee, tea, and wine, but I always have a weakness for chocolate.
“Why is it that your government looks at me as a criminal but turns a blind eye when it comes to Petsopoulos?” he says, as I reach for a chocolate.
Yannis Petsopoulos is a Greek London-based dealer who introduced the American collector Dominique de Menil to Aydin Dikmen in the summer of 1983, the same Dikmen who sold Peg Goldberg the Kanakaria mosaics.
“He’s a Greek. That’s why your government turns the other way.” Van Rijn continues to vent his anger. “It would take the heat off the Turks if a Greek were caught dealing in illicit artifacts, don’t you think?”
“A criminal is a criminal and should be punished. If he is Greek he should be punished twice, and if he’s a priest three times, that’s my philosophy.”
“Don’t be so naïve, Tazulaah.” I offer your government the chance to recover their stolen artifacts and they do everything in their power to have me jailed for it. You think I don’t know exactly what your lawyers are up to?”
“Van Rijn, you misunderstand. My government does wish to come to an agreement with you.”
“You are different from the rest of them. Even you don’t go after Petsopoulos.”
“What are you talking about?” I say, trying to gain some time to inquire about the man. “Feed me evidence and I will.”
“Bullshit,” says Van Rijn. “You will excuse my language, Tazulaah, but let’s put the facts on the table here between us. Petsopoulos deals with Dikmen. You have proof of it with the de Menil situation. The rest is up to you to figure out. Look in the shadows, woman. That is where you will see the true nature of your government.”
I go to a routine doctor’s visit alone as Michael has a crucial meeting to attend at Shell. I’m not expecting anything but a regular check-up. I’m five months pregnant now and I’m feeling fine, if just a bit swollen, so I’m sure I will be sent home with a warning to keep my diet low in salt and my weight down. In the course of this one afternoon, everything changes.
“You have what is called a twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome (TTTS),” I hear the doctor say. If Michael, my scientist husband, were here, he would take control and question the doctor. In Michael’s absence I must hold myself together as I hear the disturbing news.
“Your identical twins are sharing the same placenta but the distribution of blood is disproportionally flowing to one fetus at the expense of the other.”
“How can we fix it?”
The doctor holds my hand, and I can tell from the way she is looking at me that the babies and I must be in danger. “I will have an ambulance waiting to take you to Leiden University Hospital.”
“You can’t be serious!” I hear myself say, my voice rising. “I feel fine. I’m a little swollen, but that is to be expected. I’m carrying twins. I don’t understand! Could there be a mistake in the diagnosis?” I cry.
“Complications of this syndrome can jeopardize the health of the fetuses,” she continues. For a moment everything freezes. My heart stops beating. I can’t breathe.
“Leiden Hospital specializes in neonatal care and premature births. You will receive excellent care there.”
“This must be a mistake. Please, I don’t believe this.”
“I’m sorry to bring you such upsetting news, Mrs. Hadjitofi. May I call someone to accompany you? We must get you to the hospital as quickly as possible.”
I go directly into survival mode, compartmentalizing the emotional trauma to manage what I have to do next.
“Doctor, I have a young baby at home in the care of a nanny. I must make arrangements for my son, my business, pack a bag, and contact my husband,” I say rapidly, holding back my tears, all the while thinking to myself, this cannot be true!
“I’m sorry, I cannot release you without an escort.”
“Of course,” I say.
“Mrs. Hadjitofi, I must impress upon you that it is essential for you to check into the hospital this afternoon,” says the doctor.
I don’t recall who came to pick me up from the office that day as I was in a state of shock. I just remember organizing things to run in my absence. The busier I am, the less opportunity there is for panic to set in.
At Leiden Hospital the news does not improve, but at least Michael is by my side. On the examining table, I feel vulnerable and exposed.
“I recommend we do an amniocentesis. I will place a needle into your abdomen and remove the excess buildup of fluid. This will ease the buildup and take pressure off the fetuses. It will bring you relief as well.”
“What are the risks?” Michael asks.
“The procedure will have to be repeated weekly if the swelling continues. We are intervening here, but unfortunately, this process can also cause premature delivery.”
Michael is caressing my belly as if to reassure the babies and me that he is there to protect us.
“What is at stake here is that the child with the decreased blood volume is in danger of growing more slowly than its twin and could die from lack of nutrients. The twin receiving the excess blood runs the risk of heart failure as the excess fluid places enormous pressure on its heart.”
Michael and I need time alone to reflect and discuss our options before we can agree on how to proceed. The doctor gives us our privacy, but the choice becomes clear as soon as the doctor leaves the room.
“We must do it. Both children are at risk. We have no choice.”
The procedure goes well. The swelling goes down, and I am placed on bed rest in the hospital. Because I am only twenty-five weeks pregnant, it is crucial to prolong delivery. Michael and I suddenly feel hopeful.
“I will do my best,” I say. Michael gives me a kiss to lend his support. Just a few days later, my condition worsens. Please, God, help me, plays over and over in my mind. The doctor recommends repeating the procedure. Michael and I will do whatever it takes, so we agree.
“Mrs. Hadjitofi, unfortunately one of the fetuses must have moved, which is a risk of doing this procedure. I’m going to start you on a drug now that will help to avoid having an early delivery.”
The nurses descend upon the room immediately, inserting a small needle that will connect me to an intravenous drip. Within minutes of receiving it, I begin to sweat profusely. It feels as if my body temperature is a thousand degrees. My heart pounds, my blood pressure escalates, I am so uncomfortable that I rip the sheet covering my naked body off and grab onto Michael’s arm in desperation.
“My heart, Michael. It feels like it’s going to burst.” Michael turns to the doctor.
“Something is terribly wrong, please do something to help her!”
The doctor disconnects me from the drip.
And the labor pains begin. The sound of alarms and the actions of staff reflect emergency conditions.
“Let’s get Mrs. Hadjitofi to the delivery room, stat,” the doctor says.
I look to Michael, and he does what he is best at: being the calm to my storm.
“You must, for the sake of our babies, remain as serene as possible,” he says firmly, as he holds my hand and rubs the back of my neck to relax me. My thoughts, of course, are anything but tranquil. One moment life is everything I’ve ever dreamed it to be and the next moment I am in danger of losing it all.
“I need to prepare you, Mrs. Hadjitofi. The gestational limit in the Netherlands for us to intercede is twenty-six weeks. The odds of your twins surviving delivery are not good.”
The doctor’s words feel like the edge of a scalpel as they cut into any remaining remnants of hope I have managed to hold on to. The room fills with additional medical staff in preparation for the delivery. The twins are born rapidly. Instead of the usual congratulatory words followed by everyone patting each other on the back for a job well done as the beaming parents look on with pride and joy, there is dead silence as the doctors struggle to keep them alive. Anastasia weighs 550 grams and Sophia is 720 grams. I dread the worst. I turn my face away from my perceived heartbreak and take refuge in the only privacy available to me. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the tears from washing away the sweat that lingers as a side effect of the medication that was supposed to postpone delivery. I know if I take one look at my daughters that it will break me into a million different pieces that I will be unable ever to put back together again.
Michael is holding me, but even his comforting shoulders cannot protect me from the devastation of this moment.
“The tube is in,” a voice finally says, breaking the silence.
“They are beautiful,” the voice says sincerely.
It is the voice of Ines von Rosenstiel, a pediatrician doing her first-year residency at Leiden who is assigned as our caseworker.
“I can’t look at them,” I whisper to Michael. The babies are quickly placed in incubators, wheeled into the neonatal intensive care unit, and given transfusions. Anastasia and Sophia have tubes coming out of every orifice. Michael is torn between comforting me and following the nurses to watch over the twins.
“Go,” I say.
My daughters are in such a fragile state and at risk of infection. Michael returns a few minutes later.
“Tasoula, they are breathing. They are alive,” he says.
“I can’t bear to see them, Michael.”
I am shocked at how hopeful he is.
“They are so tiny they can fit into the size of my palm. They are beautiful little miracles,” he says.
“Please, stop, Michael. The doctor told us they will probably not survive!”
Michael gives me a calming hug.
“But, my darling, they are here with us now.”
After the nurses bathe me, they deliver me to my room. Michael comforts me in silence. Once I drift off to sleep, he rushes off to be with the twins and returns later once the staff have set up a bed for him in my room. My heart breaks for Michael. It means everything to him to be the father of twins.
“The girls are beautiful, Tasoula. They are in separate incubators, but they are facing each other. Their heads are the size of a tangerine. They have hair! They are full of fight, just like their mother,” he says, trying to lure me to visit them. “You will feel better if you just come and be with the children, please.”
His voice projects such sweetness. I want to get up and run to be with my girls with every fiber of my being.
“Michael, I know I am going to love them. It will devastate me to lose them.”
When I open my eyes this time, it is morning. Michael enters the room already having visited the twins. He pulls a chair up close to me, takes my hand, and says, “They are fighting for their lives, Tasoula. Please, they need their mother. They need you!”
His words cut through me and release the tears that wash away my fears.
“If they are fighting, then what kind of a mother am I that I am not fighting with them?” I say. “Maybe the doctors are wrong.”
It is love at first sight. I can only stroke each of them by sticking my small finger inside an opening in each incubator, but I know they can feel my presence. Anastasia’s eyes are always open, and she stares directly at me. I thought, my God, look at how beautiful and aware she is. I didn’t realize that she was blind at first but as the days went on, despite her inability to see, she would turn her head toward me whenever she heard my voice. I connect to my girls, heart to heart.
The nurses freeze my pumped breast milk, so there is an ample supply readily on hand. They feed the twins my milk via a syringe, which they inject directly into the stomachs of my girls. Ines, our pediatrician caseworker, meets with us daily to keep us abreast of the twins’ progress. The reports are dismal, but Ines is more than the consummate professional, she is a kind person of unlimited patience dedicated to her job and to those she serves. She manages to bring Michael and me the touch of humanity we so desperately need right now.
Sophia suffers from thrombosis and Anastasia suffers from kidney issues. There are more complications on the horizon, no doubt, but they will reveal themselves slowly through the children’s natural growth process. Sophia was also born without an ear, but Ines says it will grow. The twins are fighting to survive despite their tiny bodies having to endure all these complications.
I remember asking myself how could God give us such happiness with one hand and take it away with the other. Then I hear my mother’s voice, and I am reminded of her advice. “God does not give you more than you can handle, Tasoula. You must trust in his divine judgment. There is a purpose to everything.”
Over the next week, Anastasia’s coloring turns yellow, a sign that her kidneys are failing. I reach out to my network of friends, who put me in touch with a kidney transplant center in Cyprus. I speak to a doctor in London, a Cypriot expert in fetal surgery, and implore him to rescue Anastasia. The reality that Anastasia is so little makes the transplant improbable. I plead and pray, but there is nothing that can be done.
Michael gently tries to raise my awareness to the inevitable. “My darling, this is poisoning her body, and even if she is lucky enough to survive her kidney failing, which according to all the specialists she cannot, she will be severely handicapped.”
“What does this mean, Michael? I don’t care if she is disabled.”
In my mind I think, if Anastasia has disabilities, then Sophia will be okay and somehow we will all manage together. Michael tries to warn me that both children will have disabilities.
Several days pass. Anastasia’s condition worsens, and the doctors request a meeting. We are led into a conference room where my gynecologist, the obstetrician, and hospital officials are gathered.
“This is not a conversation I like to have, but, as you know, Anastasia’s kidneys are failing. We need your permission to discontinue the breathing apparatus.”
I rise from my seat. “How dare you give us false hope, and now place the responsibility on us to pull the plug on Anastasia’s life!”
The doctor attempts to calm me as the discussion continues. We are eventually placed back in my room, where Michael and I speak privately.
“I understand the anger you feel, Tasoula, I feel it as well, but they gave Anastasia the breathing apparatus to save her. And Sophia may still yet live.”
“No, Michael,” I say, sounding sure of myself. “They told us from the beginning that the babies would not survive. I begged not to see them, not to fall in love with them.”
My hormone levels dropped drastically the moment the babies were born, and I am not in the best state of mind to handle the latest catastrophic blow. Now we are expected to choose whether our child should live or die.
I feel that I don’t have the right to take a life. Being raised an Orthodox Christian, I believe that only God can do such things.
“We have to make this decision together,” says Michael.
“I can’t,” unable to let the thought rest in my consciousness for even a second.
“We must, Tasoula, because we will have to live with this decision for the rest of our lives.”
“Yes,” I reply, “that is why you and I must come to our decisions separately.”
I place a call to Bishop Maximos, who married Michael and me and also christened Andreas, to confide in him about our situation. He comes to the hospital and christens our daughters. My two girlfriends, Anna Franse and Elizabeth Sahin, the girls’ godparents, stay to support me.
“Tasoula,” Bishop Maximos takes my hand, “have you any idea what it means to care for a severely disabled child?”
“No,” I reply.
“There is a young lady, a secretary who works in the Greek embassy, whom you should meet. Shall I arrange a call?”
“Yes, but what am I to do in regard to Anastasia’s life support?”
“How long can Anastasia survive on her own?” asks Bishop Maximos.
“What are you trying to tell me?” I ask, wanting the bishop to relieve my pain.
“Some hospitals have a policy whereby if the child can breathe on its own for two hours, then they will intervene. If the child cannot survive that long without intervention, then you know that it is God’s will to remove them from life support. Your situation falls in a very gray area because the hospital has already intervened.”
After speaking with the bishop, I am still unclear about what to do. I decide to see a psychologist. I need to think about this very carefully. As Michael correctly stated, this is a life-changing decision that will remain with us for the rest of our days.
Have I explored my motivations for wanting to keep Anastasia alive? What is the best choice for my daughter?
Seeing the psychologist proves to be a valuable sounding board and a safe place for me to address the complicated issues at hand. I do take the bishop’s advice, and through his introduction to the lady at the embassy, I am now aware of the reality of what I will face should Anastasia survive. Reflecting upon the information I acquire, I determine that I cannot take the responsibility of choosing life and death because of the Greek Orthodox faith so deeply rooted in me.
When Michael and I reunite to discuss our individual feelings, it is no surprise to me that he has come to the same conclusion. We will not supersede God’s will.
That night we return home instead of sleeping at the hospital. Michael and I are both mentally and emotionally exhausted, and we decide to give ourselves a break for a few hours just this one evening to spend time with Andreas, who suffers from our absence. Looking into the eyes of my little boy who is thrilled to have this time with me, I can feel his light ignite my own, which the events of the past several weeks have all but extinguished. For just a few short hours, life feels normal again.
The next morning we receive a call from the hospital that Anastasia’s kidney condition is worse. We return to the hospital immediately.
“She is dying,” says Dr. von Rosenstiel.
I manage to overcome the lump in my throat to speak.
“May we hold her?” I ask.
The hospital staff places a privacy curtain for us in the intensive care unit. Michael and I take turns holding Anastasia. When she is in Michael’s arms, my thoughts stray. If only I stayed with her last night. She needed me, and I was not there to support her. She must have sensed my absence and assumed that I had abandoned her. Dear God, I can’t live with the pain of knowing that I let her down. Please, forgive me.
When I am holding her in my arms, these thoughts subside as I connect with her, heart to heart. I want her to feel my love during her last moments, not my fear and guilt. I want her to remember me for as long as time continues. I have never witnessed the kind of courage I see in my daughter at this moment. This is the only time I have held her without wires being attached to her body. I curse all the days that I have taken life for granted as I watch my sweet angel fight for her life. The tears flow for Michael, but I cannot shed one tear. I smile instead, wanting Anastasia to remember me this way so I can feel that I was as strong for her as my mother was for me during the war. She takes her last breath in my arms as I watch her pass from this life to God’s embrace.
The hospital moves us into a private room where Michael and I continue to hold her. There are no words to describe what losing a child is like. There is a numbness that takes hold of you, a paralysis that tricks your mind into believing you will never feel again. My daughter’s struggle to survive ended, but mine is only beginning. Michael and I make preparations to bury Anastasia while caring for our two living children, no easy feat when all I want to do is give up. Seeing Michael so devastated makes the situation even more crushing for me.
“In your view, God chose to take Anastasia from us, Tasoula, but at the end of the day, I believe that it is Anastasia who chose for all of us.”
“If only I had stayed . . .” I say, continuing to punish myself.
“Then it would have happened the next day or the day after that. It was not meant for her to survive. She knew it, and she chose when to leave us.”
We selected a white, child-sized coffin and requested that those in attendance not wear black. It wasn’t a funeral. It was a tribute to Anastasia for how she lived in the short time that we were graced with her presence. Fifty of our closest friends and family members attended a service in Rotterdam led by Bishop Maximos. I wore a pink suit and dressed Anastasia in a beautiful white gown. I placed a doll in the coffin that I had specially purchased for her before she was born, which I bury with her. I also purchased the same doll for Sophia and Michael as a gift to mark the unique connection they all shared being twins.
Because Michael and I own a house in Wassenaar, we are allowed to purchase a gravesite in the graveyard that surrounds the church in the middle of town, the place where we began our life together. We feel extremely lucky to be able to bury her in a place we consider so precious to the history of our family. I design her grave marker in the image of a beautiful angel with a butterfly, as their time on earth is also brief. Anastasia lived the same two-week life span as the butterflies who morphed from the silk worms I used to raise, the ones who created the beautiful silk threads that were processed into items for my dowry back home. For the short period that Anastasia was with us, she enriched our lives immeasurably.
When we bury Anastasia a part of me is buried with her. I suffer alone in silence. There are moments when the despair swallows me whole, and I think I will not survive another minute, and other times when I allow myself a laugh or two, especially when Andreas does something adorable, but it is fleeting. The anguish always returns, like a boomerang, to remind me of my greatest loss.
Three weeks after her death, I attend an annual Greek Gala in The Hague, which raises money for our church. No one is expecting me to attend. The Cypriot tradition when losing a loved one is to mourn in isolation for the first forty days. Despite, or perhaps even because of my heavy heart, I go to dance and to build a life for the daughter who lives, not the daughter who left us.