13.
DANTE FERRAZ
Aurora allowed me to collect the children from school.
With her.
Not alone.
Even so, I drove.
The three car seats were installed and inspected.
When I showed her the vehicle, Aurora examined every one.
She pulled at the bases.
Tested the harnesses.
Checked the models.
“You bought the most expensive ones.”
“I bought the safest.”
“Price does not mean safety.”
“I researched independent crash tests.”
She looked at me.
“How long?”
“Four hours.”
“Of course.”
Elisa chose the seat behind me.
Tomás was in the middle.
Cecília sat behind Aurora.
“I want the window,” Tomás complained.
“The middle is safer,” Aurora said.
“Don’t want safe.”
“Even so.”
He crossed his arms.
“Bad car.”
“You said my house was bad,” I said. “Now the car is bad too.”
“No toy cars.”
“Cars don’t usually contain toy cars.”
“Mommy’s does.”
I looked at Aurora.
She opened the glove compartment and removed a small toy.
“Always.”
I made a mental note.
We left the school.
At the first traffic light, Elisa asked:
“You know songs?”
“Some.”
“Sing.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t sing.”
“Everybody sings.”
“I don’t.”
“Mommy sings.”
“Your mother sings well.”
Aurora turned her face toward me.
“You remember?”
“I remember.”
She used to sing while restoring pieces.
Quietly.
Sometimes she invented lyrics.
In the car, during trips, she insisted on singing along to every song, even when she did not know the words.
“Sing,” Elisa insisted.
“I don’t know children’s songs.”
“Sing anything.”
“No.”
Tomás began:
“The frog doesn’t wash his feet…”
Elisa joined him.
Cecília came in afterward.
So did Aurora.
Four off-key voices filled the car.
I watched them in the mirror.
I did not sing.
But I smiled.
“He’s not singing,” Elisa complained.
“Leave Dante alone,” Aurora said.
“Daddy Dante.”
The title appeared again.
She used it naturally.
Tomás repeated:
“Daddy Dante, sing.”
My throat tightened.
I tried.
My voice came out low.
“The frog doesn’t wash his feet…”
The children laughed.
“That’s wrong!” Elisa shouted.
“It was exactly what all of you sang.”
“You sing bad.”
“I warned you.”
Aurora laughed.
That time, she did not hide it.
The sound struck me so forcefully that I missed the next turn.
“It was there,” she said.
“I know.”
“You passed it.”
“I noticed.”
“You don’t know the way,” Tomás concluded.
“I’m still learning.”
I turned around.
We ate lunch at Mrs. Lurdes’s house.
She served chicken with okra, rice, beans, and cornmeal porridge.
The children ate little and talked a great deal.
Afterward, Aurora needed to meet a client in the studio.
“I can stay with them in the backyard,” I offered.
She hesitated.
“Mrs. Lurdes will be in the kitchen.”
“All right.”
“Do not leave the backyard.”
“I won’t.”
“The gate stays locked.”
“All right.”
“And…”
“Aurora.”
She stiffened.
“I will follow the rules.”
“You don’t know all of them yet.”
“Then tell me.”
She breathed.
“Tomás tries to climb the laundry basin. Elisa likes to pull at the plants. Cecília may want to come inside. Do not leave any of them alone.”
“All right.”
It was the first time Aurora entered the studio and left me outside with all three.
There was one wall between us.
A small distance.
Enormous trust.
It lasted seven minutes before chaos.
Elisa decided to make “food” from dirt.
Tomás attempted to climb the basin.
Cecília wanted to go inside for her doll.
Preventing one meant losing sight of another.
“Tomás, get down.”
“I’m getting leaf.”
“The leaf is on the ground.”
“Want this one.”
Elisa poured dirt over her own dress.
“Look at my cake.”
“Don’t put it in your mouth.”
“I wasn’t gonna.”
Cecília opened the door.
“Mommy.”
“Your mother is working.”
“Want her.”
“Let’s get your doll.”
“No. Mommy.”
Tomás reached the edge of the basin.
I ran.
I lifted him down.
He began screaming.
Elisa decided to taste the dirt cake.
“No!”
I slapped her hand away by reflex.
Not hard.
But I struck her.
The silence was immediate.
Elisa looked at me.
Her eyes filled with tears.
My body went cold.
“I…”
She began to cry.
Aurora appeared at the door.
“What happened?”
Elisa ran to her.
“He hit me.”
Aurora’s expression changed.
“Dante.”
“She was about to put dirt in her mouth. I moved her hand away.”
“By hitting it?”
“It was a reflex.”
“You hit her?”
“On the hand. Not hard.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Her anger grew.
“I didn’t hurt her.”
“You do not touch my children like that.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Elisa cried against her body.
Tomás had stopped screaming.
Cecília hid behind the door.
The entire backyard seemed to reject me.
“I’m sorry, Elisa,” I said.
She did not look at me.
“Leave,” Aurora ordered.
“Aurora…”
“Now.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Exactly.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“You cannot guarantee that.”
“I can.”
“That is enough for today.”
Mrs. Lurdes appeared, but did not intervene.
I could have argued.
Said it had been instinctive.
That I had not intended it.
That Elisa had been about to eat dirt.
None of it mattered.
Aurora had established rules.
I had failed the first time I was alone with them.
I approached only enough for Elisa to hear me.
“I’m sorry. I should not have done that.”
She remained hidden.
I left.
I drove to the rented house.
During the journey, my hands tightened on the steering wheel.
Not in anger toward Aurora.
Toward myself.
I had been raised by a father who corrected every act of disobedience with physical punishment.
I had not thought about it in years.
The gesture had appeared before reason.
Small.
Automatic.
Dangerous.
I picked up the book on child discipline.
I opened the pages I had marked.
I read about adult impulses, regulation, and repeated family patterns.
Then I searched for a psychologist specializing in parenting.
I scheduled a session for the following day.
Not to show Aurora.
She might never know.
But I had to ensure that reaction did not happen again.
That night, I sent her a message.
I have no excuse. I’m sorry.
Aurora did not respond.
I wrote another.
Deleted it.
It was not my place to demand that she believe me.
At ten, the telephone rang.
It was Elisa.
I heard her voice before I said hello.
“Daddy Dante?”
I sat.
“Hello.”
“Mommy let me call.”
In the background, Aurora said:
“I dialed. She asked to speak to you.”
“Is everything all right?”
“My hand doesn’t hurt.”
I closed my eyes.
“Even so, I should not have hit it.”
“It was like this.”
I heard a small slapping sound.
Probably her demonstrating.
“I know.”
“Were you mad?”
“I was scared because you were going to put dirt in your mouth.”
“Dirt is bad?”
“It can make you sick.”
“But don’t hit.”
“No. I should have held your hand and explained.”
“Mommy says.”
“Your mother is right.”
Silence.
“You come back?”
The question surprised me.
I looked at the empty wall.
“Only when your mother allows me.”
“She’s here.”
I heard movement.
Aurora took the telephone.
“Not tomorrow.”
“I understand.”
“The day after tomorrow, perhaps.”
“All right.”
“You need to understand that…”
“I scheduled a session with a parenting psychologist.”
Silence.
“What?”
“It was a reflex. I don’t want it to happen again. I need to understand where it came from and how to prevent it.”
Aurora took a while to answer.
“You don’t need to do that to impress me.”
“I’m not doing it for you.”
“For whom?”
I looked at Cecília’s stone on the table.
“For them.”
Another silence.
“The day after tomorrow,” she said. “One hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
We ended the call.
I had lost half the space I had gained.
Perhaps more.
But, for the first time, I did not attempt to recover it with words.
Some mistakes required change before forgiveness.
I knew that better than anyone.