Natalie had put both hands over her face. Her shoulders were shaking, but she made no sound at all, and that was somehow worse than if she had.
Adam looked at her. He looked at her for a long time, and something in his face moved, came apart, reassembled itself. He got up from his chair. He hesitated. Then he crossed the floor and sat down on the bench beside her, not touching her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his arm through the sleeve of his blazer.
"You said there were supposed to be visits," he said. "Did you go?"
"Once," she said through her hands. "Her first birthday. At their house."
"And then?"
She lowered her hands. Her face was wet and blotched and she did not wipe it.
"And then I stopped," she said. "I called the agency and told them I didn't want any more letters. Or pictures. Or visits. I told them to tell Ruth I was sorry, and that I needed to move on with my life. And then I moved to Fort Collins and finished school and got a job and met you. And I never went back."