11.
DANTE FERRAZ
I went an entire day without seeing them.
It was necessary.
Aurora needed space.
The children had school.
I had obligations.
Even so, by four in the afternoon, I had checked my telephone more times than I cared to admit.
Aurora did not have my personal number.
I had left a card with her.
She did not call.
She did not send a message.
There was no reason she should have.
Even so, I waited.
At six forty, I received a call from the preschool.
I answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Dante Ferraz?”
“Yes.”
“This is Marta from Sementinha School.”
I stood.
“Did something happen?”
“The children are fine.”
My heart began beating again.
“Then why are you calling?”
“Aurora added your name today as an authorized emergency contact.”
I could not answer immediately.
“Mr. Ferraz?”
“I’m here.”
“We need to confirm a few details.”
She asked questions about my telephone number, temporary address, and relationship to the children.
When I said “father,” my voice nearly failed.
“Does this mean I may collect them?”
“Only with Aurora’s direct authorization or in an emergency. She specifically noted that.”
“I understand.”
After the call, I remained staring at the screen.
Emergency contact.
Not present father.
Not daily guardian.
But someone who could be called.
It was a minimal space.
Even so, Aurora had opened it.
I called her.
She answered after four rings.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“The school contacted me.”
Silence.
“I added your name.”
“I know.”
“It was necessary to have someone other than Mrs. Lurdes.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t read too much into it.”
“I’ll try.”
“You’re authorized only for emergencies.”
“I understand.”
“You cannot collect them without my permission.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t appear at the school.”
“All right.”
“Don’t mention it to them.”
“I won’t.”
Another silence.
“How are they?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“Did Tomás have a fever?”
“No.”
“Cecília?”
“No.”
“Did Elisa put anything else in her mouth?”
Aurora sighed.
“A plastic bead.”
“Did she swallow it?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“I took it out of her mouth.”
“Perhaps you should take her to a doctor.”
“Dante.”
“Right.”
She remained silent.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
The question was simple, but unexpected.
“Working.”
“At the hotel?”
“At the rented house.”
“You’ve already moved?”
“Today.”
“And did you buy toys?”
I looked at the living room.
A huge box stood against the wall.
Inside were toys I had not yet opened.
“No.”
The answer came too late.
“Dante.”
“They’re still in the boxes.”
“I forbade you.”
“They aren’t presents to take to them.”
“Then who are they for?”
“For when they come here.”
“They aren’t going to your house.”
“Not now.”
“Not anytime soon.”
“I know.”
“Then return them.”
I looked at the box.
“All right.”
“Really?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Today.”
“The stores are closed.”
“Then tomorrow morning.”
“All right.”
“I don’t want you building an amusement park to lure them.”
“That wasn’t what I was doing.”
“What were you doing?”
I thought about it.
“I walked into the house and realized there was nothing of theirs here.”
“Because they’ve never been there.”
“Exactly.”
My voice lowered.
“I didn’t know what to put in it.”
Aurora did not answer.
“I bought too much,” I admitted. “It was a mistake.”
“It was.”
“I’ll return everything.”
“Thank you.”
The word was carefully spoken.
“Aurora?”
“What?”
“Why did you put my name down at the school?”
She took a while to answer.
“Because if something happens to me, Mrs. Lurdes cannot carry all three by herself.”
The answer was logical.
Practical.
Without emotional meaning.
Even so, I heard what lay beneath it.
She believed that, in an emergency, I would come.
“I would,” I said.
“I hope so.”
“At any hour.”
“Don’t promise.”
I closed my eyes.
“All right.”
After ending the call, I walked over to the box.
I removed every item.
A racetrack.
A dollhouse.
Blocks.
Books.
Three small bicycles.
I did not know enough about what they liked to choose.
So I had bought everything.
It was exactly the kind of mistake Aurora predicted.
Money in place of attention.
The following morning, I returned nearly everything.
I kept only three books.
Not to give them.
To read myself.
One concerned child development at age three.
Another was about discipline without violence.
The third dealt with prematurity and its emotional impact on parents.
I finished the first one before noon.
I discovered that children that age still struggled to regulate emotions, understand time, control impulses, and share objects.
In other words, I had expected logic from people whose brains were still learning how to wait.
I wrote:
Do not argue during a tantrum.
Use few words.
Offer simple choices.
Routine.
That afternoon, I participated in a board meeting.
“We need you in S?o Paulo on Thursday,” my vice president said.
“I won’t be there.”
“The vote requires your presence.”
“I can attend remotely.”
“The shareholders want to speak in person.”
“Then they can travel here.”
He laughed, believing it was a joke.
It was not.
“Dante, we cannot move the board to a small town in the interior of Minas Gerais.”
“You can if you want my presence.”
“What is happening?”
I looked at the empty wall in the living room.
I had brought no pieces from the Ferraz Collection.
After what I discovered, looking at any artwork felt obscene.
“I’m correcting a personal problem.”
“For four days?”
“For four years.”
I ended the meeting before he could ask anything else.
That evening, I received a message from an unknown number.
Tomás asked whether your house has toy cars. I told him it doesn’t. Don’t contradict me.
I smiled.
It was Aurora.
I typed:
I won’t. I returned the toys.
Her reply came:
All of them?
Almost. I kept books for myself.
There was a pause.
Children’s books?
Child development.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Returned.
That explains why you asked whether Elisa understands long-term consequences. She is three, Dante.
I felt ashamed.
Now I know.
Her reply took longer.
Good. Tomorrow at nine.
I stared at the message for several seconds.
She could simply have said nothing.
She could have expected me to arrive at the time previously arranged.
But she had written to me.
My number was now in her telephone.
It was ridiculous to consider that a victory.
Even so, I saved her contact.
Not as Aurora Valen?a.
As:
Aurora — children’s mother.
I deleted it.
Then wrote again:
Aurora.
Because she had existed before she became a mother.
I had forgotten that when I reduced her to an accusation.
I would not forget again.