The only sounds in the room were a low humming and a clink of flatware and plates. It was morning and Kit offered to make breakfast for all of us. In the background, I could hear the TV: the weatherman was announcing that a freak snowstorm was approaching Los Angeles and we'd better stay in if we didn't want to die from the cold. It was strange… a snowstorm in L.A.? It didn't happen in years. For all I know, last time it did was in 1949. Since that storm, the Los Angeles weather station has recorder snow only six times – and not since 1962. As you may see, this was a rare event and we decided to enjoy every nuance of it.

Helena, two days before, invited all of us to her cabin. We were going to spend the weekend there, together (something we haven't been doing in a while). It was a hugeone, situated in a forest, in the northern part of Los Angeles. She was sure it was already snowing there – and she was right – I will never forget the beautiful sight when we arrived. Everything was covered in snow. Last night's snowfall surely made a great job. There wasn't an uncovered bit. What made it more beautiful and charming, was the surroundings. There were trees all around the cabin and we could hear, in the distance, the sweet sound of the river running through the rocks. In addition to that, we could admire the magnificent view of the mountains, which seemed to embrace the whole forest. As Alice said, we were positive it was going to be 'one hell of a weekend', and it'd been a hell of a weekend. O, hadn't it been! We didn't know about the snowstorm until we arrived at the cabin and I know for sure, that I won't forget the 2011 snowstorm. That's when everything took an unexpected turn for me – for us.

I was sitting at the table, absently sipping some tea from my mug. The contrast of the warmth it released and the cold of my hands gave me a soothing feeling. I barely noticed my friends were chatting and chuckling, for I was too preoccupied with my own thoughts. The sound their mouths made was just a coming and going of some blah, blah, blah's and laughters. I really couldn't make out the meanings of the words. My brain was trying to elaborate what Kit told me that morning: shewas going to be there. Shehappened to be in Los Angeles for business and was happy to spend some time with her friends. The sheI'm talking about is her sister: Bette Porter. She moved to New York when we broke up six years ago. It was a hell of a break up, as I recall it. Thinking about it, I guess I made her run away and I couldn't blame her if she didn't want to have anything to do with me. After what I did to her, I guess that was the logical conclusion: being as far away from me as she could.

"Did you tell her I'm going too?" I asked Kit, earlier. The only thing she said was that her sister was okay with it. I wondered what she really meant by it. I couldn't help but hope she didn't care because she wanted to see me and was happy I was there too. However, I was wrong. She wanted me to be there so she could take her little revenge. I guess I deserved it.

Alice's voice, calling my name, stopped my thoughts.

"Hey, T! You seem far away, are you okay?"

"Uh? Yeah," I swallow the – by now – cold tea, "I'm okay" and smiled. I was so nervous I didn't know whether my tremor was dictated by the chill weather or by my fear. I have to admit it I was so freaking scared! Then, as if my friend wanted to put some salt on the wound, she turned to Kit and started to speak about the only thing I didn't want to hear about.

"So, when is Bette coming?"

"She said she was going to be here by 2 p.m."

2 p.m. I glanced at the wall clock and learnt it was nine in the morning. The countdown started as soon as Kit told us when she was going to arrive. Five hours, and Bette and I would be facing one another after six years.

I can still remember how long those five hours seemed to me. It's like when you're sitting in class, during a really boring math lesson and you just can't wait to be out of there: totally excruciating. Or when you're home, sick, lying in bed. Time doesn't seem to want to go by and you are there, just looking around the room, waiting. Staring at the walls; not knowing what to do. They close in around you and it feels like suffocating. You just can't breathe… Five hours and I was going to face a completely new Bette. Something that totally broke my heart.

We spent almost two hours sitting at the table, in the kitchen. Alice did most of the chatting, as she always did. It was a rare thing to be together, all of us. It might sound strange but things changed a lot in these last six years. Now that I think about it, I guess everything started since Dana's death. It's as though the strong force that kept us together disappeared as soon as there was no more life left in our friend's body. Things have never been the same since. It's sad isn't it? They say you never know what tomorrow will bring. You're here today; still, you can't be sure you'll be tomorrow. Even so, life goes on. At least, this is what happened to my friends and me (even though survivingit's the best way to describe how I've been living in the past years). I couldn't say the same about Bette. That day I learnt that no matter whether your lungs are functioning or not, death can be with you nonetheless.

I glanced at the clock once again and I realized only a few minutes had passed. They seemed to last hours. Once we were finished with breakfast, we moved to the living room. I could hear Helena and Kit talking about the weather and the upcoming storm. The sky was starting to show its fury. The wind becoming stronger and the sound produced by its incessant blowing almost topped the soothing lullaby sang by the river. Despite I couldn't listen to it, I knew it was still flowing and, somehow, it unnerved me. I was envious it could go on no matter how scary the storm was going to be. It was running, and never looking back. It seemed so sure of itself; of the journey, it was taking. How many paths did I choose during the last six years? I've lost count. Each of them never brought me to the top of the mountain. They seemed to lead that way, at first, but once I was halfway, I would get lost and turned back, finding myself at the starting point. Only one of them seemed to be the right one – and I know it was – but I let it slide through my fingers and shattered it. Just like it happens when you're holding a clay bowl but you lose the grip and it falls down. Sometimes, the pieces are so tiny that even if you try your best at putting them back together, the effort it's almost pointless. They're not going to reacquire their previous shape. You would see the cracks… the more they are thick and visible, the more the damage is substantial and deep.

I sat on the windowsill, resting my forehead on the cold surface as I looked out. The view gave me the chills. The tall and skinny trees seemed to embrace one another, trying not to break, for the wind was flowing through them as if its purpose was to split them up. Just like the river, they weren't scared of the impact the tough weather was having on them. They fought it! Something Bette and I didn't manage to do, back then. We let 'the storm' destroy everything. We gave it the possibility to eradicate our ideals so that everything we built could be swallowed by the endless force of its winds. We, unlike those trees, failed one another the exact moment we started letting go of each other. This brought me back to those clay scraps and I couldn't stop hoping they weren't too small and that, somehow, there was still a chance to fix the bowl and salvage its holy content. In addition to that, there was something else I won't forgive myself about: depriving Bette of something so fundamental to her. An act that, as I would learn that day, forged the new Bette I was going to meet.

My troubles were so loud I didn't realize the wind calmed down. It was just a feeble whistle and I couldn't have imagined that the apparent calm was just the prelude of a boisterous tempest – and the most forceful one was among us, ready to come down.

A gentle tap on my shoulder brought me back to reality, for the second time that morning. I was glad, though, for the interruption since the one who yielded me some kind of respite was the most important person in my life: Angelica. My face lit up as soon as I glanced into her beautiful and deep eyes. Every time I was with her I would cherished each second spent together. She was my flesh and blood; my own soul. My daughter. Ourdaughter. She should've been our daughter… Bette's and mine. That was our grand dream and I took it away from her. We used to spend hours – even days – planning our future together. We would think about silly things like going to the market together; bringing our children to the park and watching them play. Then something changed. After seven years together – and I have to clarify that I'd happily erase the last three – we drifted apart and all those dreams were just a mere and distant memory. My daughter looked at me and I was sure she knew something was bothering me. That little seven-years-old could read me as an open book. She climbed on my lap and rested her head on my chest. I thanked God for that. I could finally feel some peace. As I held her, I let my eyes take in the surroundings. I was still sitting on the windowsill, but my glare was now diverted from the view outside to the inside. It was a nice place. The room wasn't really big, but it was cozy; it contrasted the chilly sensation I could feel crossing my body just by looking outside. The yellow ochre walls gave an even warmer feeling. Paintings and pictures were placed following a particular pattern; even the doors seemed to be part of the ornaments. A touch of class was given by the classical English furniture.

The peace, however, didn't last long. Another dark cloud overran my mind, pulling me back to that fatal night of six years ago, when our deep despair began. A despair that had been our companion in the years that followed.

• • •

It was raining, that night, but the weather conditions were nothing compared to my inner turmoil. Bette just brought Angelica back to me. I spent three excruciating days without seeing her; without knowing anything about their whereabouts. I had been thisclose to lose it and kill myself, for the panic was too unbearable. I needed mybaby. I kept telling myself: she took my baby!And I didn't realize, that day, I was doing just the same thing to Bette.

As soon as Angelica and I were reunited, I wouldn't let anyone touch her. Bette, as far as I was concerned, was the last of all people that could come close to her. I would cling onto my daughter each time she came closer. I made sure she couldn't touch her, or even look at her. Her sad eyes, her pleading voice: they did nothing. She kept asking me to forgive her. She said she did it out of fear, for she didn't want to lose her daughter. And there I snapped and I said something I regretted from then on: "She's not your daughter! I'm the only one who got that privilege.I gave birth to her. You're nothing to her; she's nothing to you!"O, how I wish I didn't utter those words.

I knew I had hurt her. For a few seconds I enjoyed it, but the look on her face… it was something I've never seen before. The look of pure, deep and bitter anguish. I could feel the agony clutching her soul. Her eyes, clouded by tears, fixed on mydaughter and me, were asking for one more chance. Something that my too-much-beaten heart failed to give her, at that time. I couldn't bring myself to forgive her. She deprived me of my daughter for the longest three days of my life… something that brought me to doing, exactly, the same thing to her.

In the days that followed, Bette came to me, at Henry's (the man–may I be damned–thatI was dating at the time) apartment, banging on the door, begging me to let her see Angelica. She'd been doing that for the next three months. Each time, I asked her not to show her face ever again. The last straw was when I told her I finally decided to let the man adopt her.

I've never seen Bette since then.