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over Antoine. Even the words they were using were the same, except that she was not threatening her daughter. She was begging her to rethink it, which was what her own mother had done too. They thought the road she had chosen was too hard, which was precisely what Beata thought of her daughter. It was the echo of the past again. History repeating itself. The unbroken chain of repetition.

Beata lay awake in her bed all that night, hearing the echoes of her past, reliving all the terrible arguments with her parents, knowing she was right, the agonizing day when she left the house, and going to him in Switzerland finally, and how perfect it had been. For her. That was the point. The only correct argument. That each person had to follow their own destiny, whatever that was. For her, it had been Antoine. Perhaps for Amadea, it was the Church. And why had they named her that, as though by some terrible intuition? Loved of God. Beata wished that He didn't love her quite so much that He had called her, but perhaps He had. Who was she to know? Who was she to judge? What right did she have to try to change her daugh-ter's destiny and make decisions for her? She had no more right to do that than her father. Perhaps love meant sacrificing what you wanted for them, in order to let them follow their dream. And as morning came, Beata knew that she had no right to stop Amadea if that was what she wanted. If it wasn't right, she would have to find that out for herself. At least she had eight years to do it. She could always change her mind, although Beata knew she wouldn't. Her parents had probably hoped that she would leave Antoine too. But they had been so happy. He was her destiny. Just as this was Amadea's. Beata had never expected to have a daughter who was a nun, nor had Antoine. But she had the feeling that he would have let her do it too. What right did they have not to?

She looked ravaged when she went to Amadea's room before breakfast. Amadea could see in her mother's face, even before Beata spoke, that she had won, and held her breath as she waited to hear it.

“I won't stop you. I want you to be happy,” Beata said, looking heartbroken, but with eyes filled with love. “I won't do to you what my parents did to me. You have my blessing, because I love you and I want your happiness, whatever that is to you.” It was the ultimate gift to her, and the ultimate sacrifice to herself, which was what she thought parenting should be about. That was the hard part. The important things were never easy. That was what made them important.

“Thank you, Mama… thank you… thank you!” Amadea's eyes were filled with light, as she hugged her mother. She looked truly euphoric, and they had never been closer. There was no question of how much or how deeply they loved each other.

It was harder telling Daphne, who cried horribly. She didn't want Amadea to leave them, nor did Beata.

“We'll never see you,” Daphne wailed miserably. “Ella never sees her sister, they won't let her. And she can't touch her or hug her.” Beata's heart sank at the prospect.

“Yes, you will. You can come twice a year, and I can touch you through a little window. Besides, we can hug a lot now and that will last us for a long time.” Amadea looked sorry for her, but remained convinced. And Daphne was inconsolable for the next week. Amadea was sad to leave them, but she seemed happier every day, as her entrance into the convent drew closer.

Hoping to make it easier for Daphne, Beata asked Amadea to wait a few more weeks, but she shook her head. “It'll only make it worse, Mama. She'll get used to it. She has you.” But that was hardly the same thing. Amadea was the light and joy in Daphne's life, as she was in Beata's. Beata had been solemn and depressed and withdrawn much of the time since her husband died. “It will do you good, too. You can do things with her, like go to movies, or the park, or museums. You need to get out more.” Amadea had done all those things with her sister for years. Beata did very little. She was