15.
DANTE FERRAZ
Elisa wanted to learn how to ride a bicycle.
The problem was that she did not own one.
I knew because I saw a child ride past the studio and Elisa ran to the gate.
“I want one.”
“One day,” Aurora answered.
“Today.”
“No.”
“Tomorrow.”
“No to that too.”
“Why?”
Aurora crouched.
“Because bicycles cost money, and you still need to learn to pay attention near the street.”
“I pay attention.”
“Yesterday you ran across the backyard without looking.”
“There wasn’t a car.”
“Even so.”
Elisa pouted.
I remained silent.
Later, I found Aurora alone in the studio.
“May I ask about the bicycle?”
“Don’t buy one.”
“I wasn’t going to offer.”
She looked at me suspiciously.
“What did you want to ask?”
“May I contribute to their expenses?”
Her expression closed.
“No.”
“They’re my children.”
“I provide for all three.”
“You shouldn’t have to do that alone.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“This isn’t about need.”
“It is exactly about need. You want to arrive with a bank account and compensate for four years.”
“I want to assume financial responsibility.”
“They have food, a home, school, and doctors.”
“And you work twelve hours a day.”
“I work because I like it.”
“Also because you need to.”
Aurora set down the brush.
“Do not analyze my life.”
“I’m not diminishing what you built.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I want to pay half of their expenses.”
“No.”
“Then open an account for them.”
“There already is one.”
“I can make deposits.”
“Not without my permission.”
“Legally…”
She became still.
“Are you going to use the law?”
I realized the mistake.
“No.”
“Because you can.”
“I don’t want to.”
“But you thought about it.”
“I consider every possibility. It doesn’t mean I will act on all of them.”
“For you, everything is a structure. Custody, visitation, child support, inheritance.”
“They are entitled to an inheritance.”
“They are entitled to a father before an inheritance.”
“I’m trying to be both.”
“Then don’t begin with money.”
I breathed.
“How do I begin?”
“Keep showing up.”
“And allow you to carry every cost?”
“For now.”
“That bothers me.”
“You’ll survive.”
The answer ended the conversation.
But it did not resolve it.
That day, I accompanied Aurora to Tomás’s routine appointment.
It was the first time she allowed me.
The cardiologist’s name was Dr. álvaro.
He recognized my surname immediately but did not comment.
Tomás sat on the examination table and said his heart went “big boom-boom.”
The doctor examined him.
“Everything is excellent.”
“Are you certain?” I asked.
Aurora glanced at me.
“I am,” the doctor replied. “His previous echocardiogram was normal. The surgery corrected the defect.”
“Is there a risk of recurrence?”
“Not in the same form.”
“Can he play sports?”
“When he’s older, probably without restrictions.”
“Does he need medication?”
“No.”
“Any dietary limitations?”
“Nothing related to his heart.”
“And fever?”
“Children develop fevers.”
“But it can place extra strain…”
“Dante,” Aurora interrupted.
The doctor smiled.
“It is common for parents to be anxious.”
The word parents struck me.
Aurora noticed too.
Tomás played with the stethoscope.
“Daddy Dante has heart?”
“He does,” the doctor answered.
“See.”
He handed the instrument to Tomás.
The boy pressed it to my chest.
“Boom-boom.”
“Is it working?” I asked.
“It’s very loud.”
“Perhaps it’s nervous.”
“Why?”
I looked at Aurora.
“Because I’m with all of you.”
She looked away.
On the way out, Tomás asked to be carried.
Aurora moved to pick him up.
He held out his arms toward me.
I lifted him.
That time, I did not ask permission.
I only realized afterward.
I looked at Aurora.
She did not object.
We walked to the car.
Tomás touched my face.
“You have beard.”
“A little.”
“It pokes.”
“I can shave it.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll keep it.”
“Feels like sandpaper.”
Aurora laughed.
“He says that about every man with a beard.”
“How many men with beards does he know?”
The question escaped before I controlled it.
Aurora became serious.
“Several. People exist, Dante.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“You did.”
Jealousy.
That was what it was.
Ridiculous.
Unjustifiable.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop behaving as if you have any right over my life.”
“I don’t.”
“Exactly.”
I placed Tomás in the car seat.
During the drive, I thought about four years.
Aurora had friends.
Clients.
Perhaps relationships.
The possibility burned.
I had no right to ask.
She might have loved another man.
She might love one now.
“Is there someone?” I asked.
Aurora slowly turned her head.
“You just admitted that you have no right.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because I need to know what I’m fighting against.”
“You are not fighting for me.”
“I am.”
The silence in the car changed.
The children spoke behind us, but they seemed distant.
“I came because of the three of them,” I continued. “But not only because of them.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“You don’t know me anymore.”
“I know parts of you.”
“Old parts.”
“They are still there.”
“No.”
“You sing while you work.”
She became still.
“You still bite the inside of your cheek when you’re worried. You organize paintbrushes by size, but can never find your keys. You drink cold coffee because you forget the cup. You sleep with one leg outside the blanket.”
“Enough.”
“I didn’t forget.”
“But you believed I was a criminal.”
The sentence ended everything.
“Yes.”
“Then do not use intimate memories as proof of love. You knew my habits, not my character.”
There was no answer.
She was right.
I knew how Aurora slept.
But at the first accusation, I behaved as if I did not know who she was.
“There is no one,” she said after a few minutes.
I looked at her.
“Not because I waited for you. I didn’t.”
“I understand.”
“I didn’t have time. Or energy. And when I did, I didn’t want to.”
“Why?”
“Because loving someone began to seem like a sophisticated way of handing over a weapon.”
The sentence struck me.
“I never…”
“You used everything you knew about me to believe the worst.”
My hand tightened on the steering wheel.
“I won’t do that again.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“I can.”
“No.”
“Aurora…”
“Love does not prevent distrust. You loved me at the altar.”
The truth was unbearable.
I had loved her.
Even while believing the evidence.
Perhaps that was the worst part.
I chose to hurt her while I loved her.
“Then I’m not asking you to trust my love,” I said. “Trust what I do.”
She looked through the window.
“I don’t trust that yet.”
“I know.”
Rain began several minutes later.
At first, there were scattered drops against the windshield. Then the sky darkened at once and water poured over Santa Brígida, erasing the colorful facades behind a gray curtain.
I reduced my speed.
The irregular stones became dangerous when wet, and I had already learned that Aurora tightened her shoulders whenever she believed I drove too quickly.
I did not need to look to know she was doing it now.
“I’m going slowly,” I said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your shoulders did.”
She seemed to notice her posture and deliberately relaxed.
“Do not analyze my body.”
Her choice of words created an unexpected silence.
Aurora turned toward the window.
I kept my eyes on the street.
Tomás did not notice.
He sat in the back seat, counting drops sliding down the glass.
“One, two, five, eight.”
“You’re skipping numbers,” I said.
“Am not.”
“Three comes after two.”
“I said three quiet.”
“I see.”
“You didn’t hear.”
“No.”
“Gotta pay attention.”
The sentence might have come from Aurora.
I looked in the mirror.
“You’re right.”
Tomás continued counting, now shouting every number to ensure I heard.
“ONE! TWO! THREE! FIVE!”
Aurora sighed.
“Four,” she corrected.
“I don’t like four.”
“It exists anyway.”
“Doesn’t exist today.”
I drove through a deeper puddle.
Water rose beside the car.
Tomás grew excited.
“Again!”
“It wasn’t intentional.”
“Do it on purpose.”
“No.”
“Daddy Dante says no a lot.”
Aurora bit the inside of her cheek.
That time, I did not comment.
I was learning.
At the next corner, traffic stopped.
A delivery truck stood sideways across the narrow street. The driver was attempting to maneuver, but the tires slipped on the stones.
“This will take a while,” Aurora said.
Tomás groaned.
“Want home.”
“We are going,” she replied.
“Now.”
“The car stopped.”
“Tell it go.”
“I can’t order the truck away.”
He looked at me through the mirror.
“Daddy Dante orders.”
“Not always.”
“You order man.”
“What man?”
Tomás pointed at the truck.
“That one.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Call him.”
“He’s trying to move.”
Tomás pulled at the car-seat buckle.
“Want floor.”
“You cannot get out,” Aurora said.
“Want!”
“I know.”
“Take it off!”
“No.”
His face began turning red.
I recognized the signs of a tantrum after the incident at the pharmacy.
Exhaustion.
Frustration.
An inability to understand why desire did not immediately become reality.
Even so, my first instinct was to fix it.
I looked at the dashboard.
“I can play music.”
Aurora shook her head.
“Don’t offer too many things.”
“Why?”
“He’s tired. The more you talk, the more irritated he’ll become.”
Tomás kicked the seat in front of him.
“Want out!”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“It is difficult simply to listen.”
“I know.”
“It feels wrong to do nothing.”
“We are doing something. Keeping him safe.”
“It doesn’t feel sufficient.”
Aurora turned toward me.
“Not everything can be resolved the instant it hurts.”
The sentence remained between us.
It was not only about Tomás.
I knew.
So did she.
“Does that apply to adults?” I asked.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Do not turn your son’s tantrum into a metaphor for our relationship.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“You are.”
“Perhaps a little.”
“Dante.”
“Right.”
Tomás kicked again.
“Want Mommy.”
Aurora turned as far as the seat belt permitted.
“I’m here.”
“Hold me.”
“I cannot pick you up while the car is in the street.”
“Want hold now!”
“When we arrive.”
“Now!”
His voice broke on the final scream.
My chest constricted.
It was not real pain.
I knew that.
Even so, every part of me wanted to release him from the harness, lift him, and end the crying.
“How do you stand it?” I asked.
Aurora kept her voice calm.