She fell asleep that night, thinking of all of them, the nuns who had circled her like gentle birds in the dining hall that night… Sister Lizzie… Sister Timothy… Sister Mary Margaret… Sister John… and the tall woman with wise eyes who had brought Gabriella into her heart, without a sound, without a word, but kept her nestled there, a small bird with a broken wing, and already now, as she lay hidden at the bottom of her bed as she always did, she could feel the broken parts in her soul slowly mending.

They came to wake them the next day, as they always did, at four o'clock in the morning. The three young girls spent the first two hours of the day in church, with the nuns, praying silently, and then finally, just before the sun came up, the entire community began singing together. Gabriella thought she had never heard anything as beautiful as their voices raised in unison, praising a God she had implored for years, and whom she often had reason to doubt ever listened. But here, in the power of their faith and love, his love for them seemed so obvious and irresistible, the safety he offered them seemed so certain. And by the time she entered the dining hall with them again for their first meal of the day, she felt strangely at peace among them.

Breakfast was a silent meal, it was a time for contemplation, and preparation for what they would bring to the world beyond these walls throughout the day, in the hospital and school where they worked, bringing solace and healing to those they touched and moved among as they sought to live and express God's blessing. They left each other with nods and smiles, and went to their cells and dormitories, depending on their age and status in the convent. The older nuns had individual cells of their own, the novices and postulants lived in small dormitories, just as Gabriella did now with the other two boarders. And like them, she would study here with two of the old nuns who were retired teachers. A small schoolroom had been set up for them, and she and the other two girls were settled into it and hard at work by seven-thirty that morning. They worked hard until noon, doing work that was appropriate for each of them, and then took their noon meal in the dining hall with the handful of nuns who did not work outside the convent.

Gabriella didn't see Mother Gregoria all day. In fact, she didn't see her again until that night at dinner, and Gabriella's eyes lit up, as did Mother Gregoria's, the moment she saw her. She walked shyly over to her, and Mother Gregoria asked her with a warm smile how her first day was.

“Did you work hard in school?” Gabriella nodded with a cautious smile. It had been much harder than her normal classes, and there had been no breaks for games or recess, but she was surprised to find that she liked it. There was something very peaceful about being here, and sharing the things they did. It seemed as though everyone had a job, a purpose, a goal. It was not merely the absence of the world one noticed here, but the presence of something more, a way of giving, rather than just surviving and taking. In their own way, in their own time, they had each come here for a reason, and they were each expected to empty their souls each day, for the benefit of others. And rather than depleting them, it seemed to fill them. Even the children were aware of it, like Julie, Natalie, and “Gabbie,” as half the convent already seemed to have named her, and she was surprised to find that she liked it.

Everything about this was so different from the life she had known before. The women here were the exact opposite of her mother. There was no vanity, no egocentricity, no anger, no rage. It was a life entirely devoted to love, and harmony, and serving others. They were all amazingly happy and safe here. And for the first time in her life, so was Gabriella.

Two priests came to hear confession that night. They came four times a week, and the nuns lined up in silence in the chapel after dinner, and Sister Lizzie asked if she would like to join them. She had made her first communion four years before, and was able and expected to take the sacraments, though not necessarily as often as the Sisters, all of whom took communion daily. Most of their confessions were brief, some long, all prayed quietly for a considerable amount of time afterward, contemplating their failings and sins as nuns, and doing the penance they had been given.

Gabriella's confession was very short, but interesting to the priest who listened. After telling him how long it had been since her last confession, she admitted to him the sin of often hating her mother.

“Why, my child?” he asked her gently. Of the two priests hearing confession that night, he was by far the elder, a kindly man who had been a priest for forty years and had a deep love of children. He could hear through the grille how young her voice was, and knew from Mother Gregoria that there was a new child among them, although he had not yet met her before her confession. “Why would you allow the devil to tempt you to hate your mother?”

There was an interminable silence before she answered. “Because she hates me,” the smallest of voices told him, but she sounded certain.

“A mother never hates her child. Never. God would never allow that.” But God had allowed a lot of things to happen to her that she felt sure he had never inflicted on others, perhaps because she herself was so bad, or perhaps God hated her too, although here, at St. Matthew's, it seemed hard to believe that.

“I know that my mother hates me.”

He denied it yet again, and then moved on through the rest of the confession, urging her to say ten Hail Marys and think of her mother lovingly with each of them, and know that her mother loved her. Gabriella didn't argue with him, but realized only that she was a bigger sinner than he knew for hating her mother as much as she did. She couldn't help it.

She said her penance silently with the nuns, and then went back to her room, where Natalie was reading a magazine she had bought on the sly, all about Elvis, while her sister Julie threatened to tell Sister Timmie about it. Gabriella left them to their squabbling and thought about what the priest had said to her in the confessional, and wondered if she would spend eternity in hell because of her hatred for her mother. What she didn't realize, nor did they, was that she had already been in hell for her entire lifetime. Surely had anyone seen what her life had been, she would have been assured a place in heaven.

She slept at the bottom of the bed, as she always did, that night, and in the morning, as they dressed for church, the other two girls teased her about it, but not with any malice. They just commented on how funny it looked when they looked over at her bed and thought no one was in it. That had been the point, of course, though it had never really saved her. But it had long since become a habit.

She went to school with them again that day, and life at St. Matthew's slowly became a routine for her. Living with the nuns and the two other girls, going to church and school with them. She learned their hymns, their ways, the prayers they said morning and night and mid-afternoon, and she fell to her knees on the stone floor in the halls, without even thinking about it, when the church bells rang, just as the nuns did. By mid-May, she knew all of them by name, and the things they liked and did, and she smiled most of the time, and chatted easily at dinner with all of them, and whenever possible she sought Mother Gregoria out, without saying much to her, she just enjoyed being near her.

It was the end of May when the Mother Superior called her into her tiny office. It was odd for Gabriella to see her there, it reminded her of the first day when she had come here with her mother. That seemed so long ago now. It had been six weeks since she'd arrived and Gabriella hadn't had so much as a postcard from her mother. And although she hadn't heard from her, she knew her mother would be home soon.

She wondered if she had done something wrong and was about to be scolded when she stepped into Mother Gregoria's office. Sister Mary Margaret had come to the schoolroom to ask her to come here, and for some reason the request sounded alarmingly official.

“Are you happy here, my child?” Mother Gregoria asked, smiling easily at her. There was something deeply compelling about Gabriella's blue eyes, they belied her years and the innocence one expected to find there. She smiled more openly now, but in spite of it, one sensed a distance between Gabriella and those she still feared might hurt her. Even here, there were times when she was still very guarded. And Mother Gregoria had noticed that she went to confession often, and worried that there were still demons that plagued her, demons she had not shared yet. Gabriella was still extremely private. “Do you feel at home here?”

“Yes, Mother,” Gabriella answered simply, but her eyes were worried. “Is something wrong? Did I do something I shouldn't?” She would rather know immediately what punishment would be meted out to her, for what offense, and how quickly. The anticipation of knowing was terrifying.

“Don't be afraid, Gabbie. You have done nothing wrong. Why are you worried?” There were so many questions she would have liked to ask, but even after six weeks, she did not dare yet. She knew it was still too soon to approach her, and perhaps always would be. She knew that Gabriella was entitled to her private griefs, and secrets, even at her age.

“I was afraid you were angry at me. When Sister Mary Margaret came to get me, she said you wanted to see me in your office, and I thought…”

“I only wanted to talk to you about your mother.” A tremor of fear instantly ran through her. The mere mention of her name filled Gabriella with dread, yet she knew she would see her again soon, and in some ways she missed her. But she had been praying constantly to quell the hatred she felt, and had said countless Hail Marys. She wondered suddenly if the priests who were hearing her confessions had said something to Mother Gregoria about her. The wise old nun saw the shadows darting across the child's face and could only guess at the terrors they represented. “I heard from her yesterday. She called me from California.”