17.
DANTE FERRAZ
I became part of the routine.
Not every day.
Not alone.
Not enough to consider myself a true father.
But enough to begin understanding the size of what Aurora carried.
On Mondays and Wednesdays, I helped with school pickup.
On Fridays, I spent two hours at the studio.
Some lunches happened at Mrs. Lurdes’s house.
In two weeks, I learned that Elisa hated apple peel, although she ate the entire fruit if no one mentioned it.
Cecília needed several minutes of silence after school.
Tomás said he was not tired immediately before falling asleep anywhere.
I learned to carry wipes.
To check cups.
Not to leave pens uncapped.
To ask before offering.
I also learned that three children did not create three times as much work.
They created ten.
If one wanted to be held, another wanted it too.
If one spilled water, another stepped in it.
If one began crying, the others might join without knowing why.
Elisa found my planner while I helped Tomás rebuild a tower he had knocked down himself three times.
I had left it open on the bench by the window.
A mistake.
“My name is here.”
I raised my head.
Elisa held the notebook in both hands, studying the page as though she could truly read everything I had written.
Aurora interrupted her work.
“How do you know it is your name?”
Elisa pointed to the first letter.
“It has E.”
She recognized the shape.
Not the entire word.
Even so, I felt as though I had invaded something that belonged to her.
I approached.
“Your name is there.”
“What does it say?”
I looked at the page.
The notes seemed inappropriate now that she stood in front of me.
Elisa — curious. Talks to strangers. Puts small things in her mouth. Likes painting.
Cecília — doesn’t like changes. Blue cloth. Hides when frightened. Be careful with milk.
Tomás — runs toward the street. Allergic to cashews. Cardiologist. Likes dinosaurs and toy cars.
I had written it down to memorize it.
The way I did with important business information.
But my children were not data.
The planner had merely been a way to prevent myself from repeating mistakes.
“It says that you like painting,” I answered.
“And what else?”
“That you are curious.”
“What is curious?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
She smiled.
“I do.”
“It also says that you talk to people you don’t know.”
Aurora crossed her arms.
“That part is important.”
Elisa made a face.
“I know them after.”
“You don’t know them first,” Aurora explained. “That is why you need to stay near an adult.”
“Okay.”
The carefree answer demonstrated that she had absorbed nothing.
Elisa pointed to the next line.
“Is this Cecí?”
“It is.”
Cecília looked up from her box of stones.
“Me?”
“Your name is here.”
She approached slowly.
Tomás abandoned the tower.
“Am I there?”
“You are.”
Within seconds, all three surrounded the planner.
Elisa attempted to identify letters.
Tomás placed one finger over every line.
Cecília watched without touching.
“Read mine,” Tomás asked.
I sat on the floor.
“It says that you like dinosaurs and toy cars.”
“And hero shoe.”
“I didn’t write that.”
“Write.”
I picked up the pen.
Before I could add anything, Tomás caught my hand.
“I do it.”
“You don’t know how to write yet.”
“I do.”
Aurora watched from the table.
A small smile appeared on her face.
“Let him draw,” she suggested.
I handed over the pen.
Tomás drew an irregular circle across part of the line.
“Done.”
“What is it?”
“A shoe.”
I looked at the drawing.
“It resembles a circle.”
“It’s a circle shoe.”
“All right.”
Elisa took the pen.
“Now me.”
She scribbled several lines beside her name.
“That’s me painting.”
“I understand.”
I did not.
But I had learned that I did not need to pretend I saw exactly what they imagined.
“I see many lines,” I added. “Are you painting quickly?”
“Very.”
“Then it makes sense.”
Elisa accepted that.
Cecília remained nearby.
“Would you like to draw?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“No.”
“That’s all right.”
She began to return to her stones.
“May I write something you like?”
She stopped.
“Moon.”
I wrote:
Cecília likes the moon.
“And rock.”
I added:
And rocks.
She watched the pen move, although she could not understand the words.
“Anything else?”
Cecília squeezed her cloth.
“Mommy.”
My hand stopped for a moment.
I looked at Aurora.
She moved her eyes toward the piece on the table.
I wrote carefully:
Cecília loves Mommy.
“Me too!” Elisa protested.
I added it to her line.
Tomás raised his arms.
“I love too.”
I wrote it in his section.
The three sentences lay in front of me.
Three children who learned to love Aurora before they fully understood the meaning of the word.
She had been everything to them.
Mother.
Protection.
Home.
Presence.
I was in none of those first memories.
“And Daddy Dante?” Elisa asked.
I raised my eyes.
So did Aurora.
“What about me?”
“You write that we like you.”
Cecília looked at her sister.
Tomás slapped his hand on the notebook.
“I like.”
Joy came too quickly.
I had to control it so I did not frighten them.
“May I write that?”
“Yes.”
I added:
Tomás likes Daddy Dante.
Elisa pointed to her line.
“Me too.”
I wrote:
Elisa likes Daddy Dante.
Cecília remained silent.
I did not look directly at her.
I did not want everyone’s attention to turn it into a demand.
I set down the pen.
“Done.”
She moved slightly closer.
“And me?”
My heart beat faster.
“I only write it if you want.”
Cecília thought.
She pressed the cloth against her face.
“I like you a little.”
The sentence was spoken so quietly that I almost did not hear it.
A little.
It was more than I had the right to expect.
I picked up the pen again.
I wrote exactly:
Cecília likes Daddy Dante a little.
“A little is good,” I said.
She nodded.
No embrace.
No broad smile.
Only a small truth placed on paper.
Aurora watched me.
I could not interpret her expression.
Perhaps she was evaluating whether I would turn the concession into something larger.
I did not.
“And Mommy?” Elisa asked.
I looked at her.
“What about your mother?”
“You like her?”
The air changed.
Aurora went still.
Tomás repeated:
“You like her?”
Cecília waited.
I could evade.
Say it was an adult matter.
Perhaps that would be the prudent choice.
But I did not want to lie to them.
Nor did I want to use the question to place Aurora against a wall.
“I do,” I answered.
She immediately looked away.
Elisa smiled.
“Write it.”
“I don’t need to write everything.”
“Gotta remember.”
I looked at Aurora.
She gripped the paintbrush between her fingers.
“That I won’t forget.”
The words escaped before I could make them less intimate.
Aurora stood.
“Children, time to put away the toys.”
“But the planner,” Elisa complained.
“It belongs to Dante.”
I closed the notebook.
“You can draw in it again another day.”
“Tomorrow?” Tomás asked.
“Not tomorrow.”
“After?”
“When your mother allows it.”
Aurora picked up the box of blocks.
We began cleaning.
The children complained but partially obeyed.
Tomás placed one block in the box and two in his pocket.
Elisa claimed she was still playing with everything.
Cecília organized the stones by size before storing them.
When they were occupied, Aurora approached.
“You didn’t need to answer.”
Her voice was low.
“I didn’t want to lie.”
“You could have said it wasn’t their concern.”
“That is true.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
I thought before replying.
“Because they asked something simple.”
“It isn’t simple.”
“For them, perhaps it is.”
“And that is how they begin building a story.”
“What story?”
“That you returned, still like me, and everything will end well.”
Pain moved through me.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t need to. They complete what they don’t understand.”
I looked at Elisa.
She was positioning two wooden figures side by side.
One larger and one smaller.
Perhaps Aurora was right.
Children organized the world into simple narratives.
Father.
Mother.
Children.
Home.
Happy ending.
“I’ll be more careful,” I said.
She seemed surprised by the lack of argument.
“You need to.”
“But I won’t lie if they ask.”
“You can say it is complicated.”
“Is that what you told Cecília?”
Aurora became still.
“She told you?”
“She asked whether I lived here. Said you told her it was complicated.”
“They repeat everything.”
“I’m learning.”
She resumed putting away toys.
“To be clear, I don’t expect you to do anything about what I feel.”
Aurora closed the lid of the box with force.
“Then don’t say it.”
“They asked.”
“Do not place that on me.”
“I’m not.”
“You are when you speak as though something is still waiting for me.”
“There is something inside me. I didn’t say there is inside you.”
She stared at me.
“You no longer know what is inside me.”
“I know.”
“Then stop filling the gaps.”
The sentence struck precisely where it should.
I did that.
I observed every look.
Every hesitation.
Every gesture.
I turned concessions into hope.
“You’re right.”
Aurora crossed her arms.
“You agree too quickly now.”
“Disagreeing would not make you wrong.”
“And afterward you wait for me to recognize that you’ve changed.”
“I’m trying to stop doing that too.”
“Trying.”
“It’s what I have.”
She bit her cheek.
I did not mention it.
Her eyes noticed that I had.
For a moment, something almost familiar appeared between us.
Not intimacy.
The memory of it.
“You always need the last word,” she said.
“I can remain silent.”
“That would be new.”
I nodded.
I remained silent.
Aurora watched me for two seconds.
“That is irritating.”
I almost laughed.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly.”
The smile escaped before she could stop it.
Small.
Brief.
But real.
My chest tightened.
I remembered that smile.
I had spent years trying not to.
“Don’t make that face,” she said.
“What face?”
“As if you won something.”
The smile vanished.
“I didn’t.”
“It looks like you did.”
“You smiled.”
“It was involuntary.”
“I know.”
“Then forget it.”
“I can’t.”
Aurora looked away.
Before the conversation continued, Elisa appeared with the planner again.
I had not noticed when she removed it from my backpack.
“Needs drawing.”
“You already drew.”
“Another.”
She opened to an empty page and sat on the floor.
With the pen, she drew five circles.
She added legs.
Arms.