4.
AURORA VALEN?A
Dante spent the morning sitting in the café across from my studio.
He did not come inside.
He did not knock.
He did not attempt to speak to me.
He simply stayed there.
I watched him through the window while working on the frame of a nineteenth-century altarpiece.
At nine thirty, he opened his computer.
At ten, he participated in a video meeting.
At eleven, a man in a suit delivered a stack of documents.
At noon, Dante was still sitting at the same table.
“He’s going to grow roots,” Mrs. Lurdes commented.
“I hope not.”
“A man that size would need a very large pot.”
I looked at her.
“That isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
She placed a tray with coffee on my table.
Mrs. Lurdes owned the house next door, the kitchen that fed half the street, and the curiosity that fed the other half.
She had also been the first person in Santa Brígida to offer me help.
I had arrived pregnant, exhausted, and unsure where I would spend the following week. She knew the owner of the building, helped me rent the space, and, months later, stood beside me when I returned from the hospital with three newborns.
She had earned the right to ask questions.
Even so, I did not want to answer them.
“He’s the father?” she asked.
I continued working.
“The children have his eyes.”
“Tomás does.”
“Cecília too, when she’s angry.”
“She’s rarely angry.”
“She is. She’s just quiet about it.”
I sighed.
“He’s their father.”
Mrs. Lurdes did not look surprised.
“Does he know?”
“He does now.”
“And what does he want?”
“Everything.”
“Rich men usually do.”
“He says he wants to know the children.”
“And you?”
I adjusted my tweezers.
“I want to finish this frame.”
“Aurora.”
“I don’t know.”
It was the most uncomfortable truth.
I had spent four years imagining what I would do if Dante found out.
In some versions, I slammed the door in his face.
In others, I showed him every hospital bill, every medical report, every photograph from the neonatal intensive care unit and forced him to understand everything he had missed.
There were nights when I imagined screaming.
Others when I wished I would feel nothing.
Now he was here.
And I felt too much.
Anger.
Fear.
An ancient pain my body recognized before I could stop it.
There was something worse as well.
The memory of love.
Not present love.
There was no present love.
But my body remembered the man Dante had been before the altar. The way he looked at me. The way he touched my face. The safety I felt whenever he entered a room.
I hated that memory.
“He’s going to keep insisting,” Mrs. Lurdes said.
“I know.”
“You can’t keep the children from knowing forever.”
“They’re children, not ‘the boys.’”
“It’s just an expression.”
“They’re three.”
“And soon they’ll be four. Then five. One day they’ll ask questions.”
“Elisa already does.”
My daughter wanted to know why her classmates had fathers who collected them from school. I told her families were different.
I was not lying.
But I was not telling her everything either.
“Perhaps it’s better for them to meet him now,” Mrs. Lurdes suggested. “While he’s still only the sad man.”
“And if he leaves?”
“Then you’ll be there for them.”
“That won’t prevent the pain.”
“No.”
“Cecília will suffer.”
“Perhaps.”
“Elisa will think she did something wrong.”
“Perhaps.”
“Tomás will…”
My voice failed.
I remembered Tomás in the intensive care unit.
Far too small.
His chest covered in wires and dressings.
I held his hand through the incubator opening and told him Mommy was there.
Dante was not.
He did not know.
But he could have known.
“He had the right to be informed,” Mrs. Lurdes said carefully.
“I tried.”
“Once.”
“It was enough.”
While I was still pregnant, I received a concerning diagnosis. One of the babies showed possible heart abnormalities. I was alone, terrified, and convinced I had to notify Dante.
I called his company.
I sent emails.
I went to the Ferraz Group’s building.
I did not make it past reception.
His assistant met me in a private room and told me Dante wanted no contact whatsoever. I gave her a letter, the medical reports, and my new telephone number.
I never received a response.
Months later, I discovered that nothing had reached him.
By then, it no longer mattered.
He had given the order that allowed them to turn me away.
“After the three of them were born, you could have tried again,” Mrs. Lurdes said.
“I was busy keeping them alive.”
She lowered her gaze.
“I know.”
“I will not apologize for refusing to chase a man who said in front of an entire church that my children were a trap.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I’m saying that now he knows.”
I looked through the window.
Dante was speaking on the telephone.
Even from a distance, I recognized his concentrated posture. One finger tapped against the table while he listened.
He had always done that.
Small details survived even after love died.
“He’s no longer the same man,” Mrs. Lurdes observed.
“You’ve seen him for two days.”
“So have you.”
“I knew him for two years.”
“You knew who he was at the time.”
“And that was enough to destroy my life.”
Before she could answer, the phone rang.
It was the school.
My entire body went on alert.
“Hello?”
“Aurora? This is Marta.”
“Has something happened?”
“Cecília has a fever.”
I stood.
“How high?”
“Thirty-eight point five. She’s very listless.”
“I’m on my way.”
I ended the call.
“What happened?” Mrs. Lurdes asked.
“Cecília.”
I grabbed my bag, searched for my keys, and knocked over a jar of paintbrushes.
“Calm down.”
“She has a fever.”
“I’ll close the studio.”
I rushed outside.
Dante was already standing.
“What happened?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“Aurora.”
I kept walking.
“Is one of the children sick?”
I stopped.
The question carried genuine fear.
“Cecília has a fever.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“My car is here.”
“You don’t have car seats.”
“She’s at school. We can collect her and take her to the doctor. You can hold her in your lap.”
“Children don’t travel on people’s laps.”
He ran a hand over his face.
“Right.”
“I have a car.”
“Then I’ll follow you.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to talk to me. Just let me help.”
“Help how?”
“Driving. Making phone calls. Carrying whatever is needed.”
“I’ve been doing all of that alone for years.”
Pain crossed his face for a second.
“I know.”
That answer disarmed me more than an argument would have.
Dante did not attempt to justify himself.
He did not say he had been unaware of their existence.
He simply accepted it.
I knew what it was like to collect three children from school when one was ill. Two would cry because their routine had been disrupted. One would demand to be held. I would have to drive and supervise them all at once.
“You stay in the car,” I said.
“Agreed.”
“You don’t enter the school.”
“Agreed.”
“You don’t tell the children anything.”
“Agreed.”
“And you don’t touch Cecília without her permission.”
He nodded.
We got into my car.
Dante looked at the three car seats crowded across the rear bench.
Then at the passenger seat covered with toys, tissues, and a bag of clothes.
He removed everything without comment and sat down.
At school, he found exactly what I had predicted.
Cecília was in my arms, hot and drowsy.
Elisa was crying because she did not want to leave before painting.
Tomás was shouting because someone had put away his toy car.
“Can I take one?” Dante asked.
“Elisa.”
He crouched in front of her.
“Would you like to show me your painting in the car?”
“I didn’t finish.”
“You can finish it at home.”
“Don’t have paint.”
“We can buy…”
I shot him a look.
He corrected himself.
“Your mother decides.”
Elisa sniffled.
“There’s paint at home.”
“Then you can finish it.”
She took his hand.
It was as simple as that.
My chest tightened.
Tomás saw them.
“Me too.”
“You’re coming with me,” I said.
“Want him.”
Dante looked at me.
There was no triumph in his expression.
Only uncertainty.
I nodded.
He held his hand out to Tomás.
The boy took it.
We walked to the car like a family that did not exist.
Cecília opened her eyes as Dante placed Elisa in her car seat.
She watched him silently.
“Sad man,” she murmured.
He froze.
“Hello, Cecília.”
She hid her face against my neck.
Dante did not attempt to touch her.
He obeyed the rule.
At the pediatrician’s office, Cecília was examined and the doctor concluded it was probably a viral infection.
“She needs fluids and observation,” she explained. “If she becomes excessively lethargic or the fever doesn’t respond, call me.”
“All right.”
“And her siblings may develop symptoms.”
I looked at the three children.
Elisa was trying to open a drawer.
Tomás was spinning the doctor’s stool.
Dante held his hand near the corner of the desk, preventing Tomás from hitting his head without the boy noticing.
“Wonderful,” I muttered.
On the way back, Cecília began to cry.
“Mommy, hold me.”
“You need to stay in your car seat.”
“Hold me.”
“When we get home.”
“Now.”
Her voice became shrill.
Elisa covered her ears.
Tomás began singing to compete with the noise.
I drove while trying to speak to all three of them.
“Cecí, we’re almost home.”
“No!”
“I know you feel bad.”
“Mommy!”
Dante looked back.
“May I try?”
“Try what?”
He picked up the blue cloth that had fallen onto the floor and handed it to Cecília.
“Your mother is here. She just needs to drive.”
Cecília snatched the cloth from his hand.
“Don’t talk.”
Dante nodded.
“All right.”
She pressed the fabric against her face.
Her crying diminished.
Two minutes later, she fell asleep.
After parking in front of the studio, I remained with my hands on the steering wheel.
“Thank you,” I said.
The words were difficult.
“You don’t need to thank me.”
“Don’t mistake one morning for fatherhood.”
“I won’t.”
“It was only help.”
“I know.”
I got out of the car.
Dante followed.
“May I stay?”
“No.”
He accepted the answer without protesting.
“Tomorrow?”
I looked at Cecília asleep in my arms.
Then at Elisa, who was still holding his hand.
“Two hours,” I decided. “At the studio. With me present.”
Dante did not smile.
Perhaps he knew he had not earned the right.
He only nodded.
“I’ll be here.”
Elisa tugged on his hand.
“You come back?”
He looked at me before answering.
“If your mother allows it.”
“She allowed.”
“Then I’ll come back.”
Elisa’s expression lit up.
So did my fear.
Because Dante had not done anything to earn my trust.
But he was already beginning to earn hers.