44.
AURORA VALEN?A
Acknowledging that Dante and I were a couple did not change the children’s routine.
It changed ours.
Not grandly.
There was no public announcement, romantic dinner, or flowers arriving at the studio.
There were morning messages.
Coffee placed far from restoration work.
Quick kisses in the kitchen while the triplets were distracted.
Conversations interrupted because Tomás needed the bathroom.
Hands joined inside the car.
Dante asking before coming over.
Me saying he did not need to ask on certain occasions.
Him continuing to ask anyway.
It was strange.
Beautiful.
Terrifying.
During the first week after the trip to Belo Horizonte, Dante slept at my house twice.
On the sofa.
Not because I prohibited him from entering my room.
Because the children were with us.
Cecília woke at night and needed to verify everyone remained in place.
Tomás wandered through the corridor half asleep, forgot where the bathroom was, and entered any door.
Elisa appeared at six in the morning without understanding that adults might want privacy.
There was no safe space for intimacy.
We discovered that when Dante kissed me in the kitchen, believing all three were watching a cartoon in the living room.
“You’re stuck,” Tomás announced behind us.
I moved away so rapidly that my hip struck the counter.
Dante caught my arm.
“Careful.”
Tomás looked.
“Did hurt?”
“A little.”
“Daddy kissed and hurt?”
“No,” I replied.
“Then why you fell?”
“I did not fall.”
“Almost.”
Elisa appeared.
“You were kissing?”
“We were talking,” I said.
Dante turned his face.
I saw the smile.
“Do not help.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face did.”
Elisa pointed toward his mouth.
“Daddy has kiss smile.”
“What is a kiss smile?” I asked.
“This.”
She attempted to imitate it.
She looked like someone with stomach pain.
Tomás copied her.
Cecília, who arrived last, did too.
Within seconds, all three made strange expressions in the middle of the kitchen.
Dante began laughing.
So did I.
The intimacy ended.
Not badly.
It merely became something else.
That morning, after taking the children to school, we went to the registry office.
It was the first step toward formally acknowledging paternity.
I had delayed the conversation for weeks.
Dante had not pressured me.
Even after becoming a constant presence, assuming part of the routine, and being called Daddy, his name was still missing from their documents.
On their birth certificates, the field was blank.
I had looked at that space many times.
During the first years, it hurt.
Then it became a defense.
Proof that I did not need him.
Now it appeared to be something else.
An absence no longer matching reality.
Dante drove in silence.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
“Very.”
“It is only a registry office.”
“To you.”
“What is it to you?”
“A document saying they are my children.”
“They already are.”
“I know.”
“It does not depend on paper.”
“I know that too.”
“Then?”
He stopped at the traffic light.
“I spent four years without existing in their lives. The paper does not correct that. But it places my name where it should have been from the beginning.”
I looked through the window.
“I do not want you interpreting this as a right over decisions.”
“I won’t.”
“Acknowledgment does not mean automatic shared custody.”
“I know.”
“Or visitation without agreement.”
“I know.”
“Dante.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You say ‘I know’ to everything.”
“Because we have already discussed it.”
“I want to hear it again.”
He nodded.
“Legal acknowledgment means assuming responsibilities and securing the children’s rights. It does not mean removing your authority, changing their routine, or demanding anything without dialogue.”
“And the surname?”
“You decide with them when they are old enough.”
“They’re small.”
“Then they remain Valen?a.”
“Does that bother you?”
Dante held the wheel.
“A little.”
Honest.
“But Valen?a is the name they carried while you kept them alive. I do not want to erase it.”
“They could be Valen?a Ferraz.”
“If you want.”
“I don’t know.”
“You do not need to decide today.”
The light changed.
We continued.
Dante did not consider the DNA test necessary.
Legally, however, the attorney recommended it.
Dante initially refused.
He said it felt like repeating the altar.
I insisted.
Not to prove anything to him.
To prevent future questions from the board, family, or anyone else.
“We do it once,” I said. “Then no one can use it against them.”
Dante accepted.
The result was already available.
A probability greater than ninety-nine point nine percent for all three.
When the clerk read it, Dante did not look at the paper.
He looked at me.
“I never doubted them now.”
“I know.”
“I wanted you to know.”
“I know.”
He almost smiled.
“Now you may use it.”
“Only me.”
We signed.
My hand trembled.
Dante noticed.
He did not touch before asking.
“May I?”
I held it out.
His fingers closed around mine.
The clerk pretended not to watch.
Then came forms.
Signatures.
Questions.
The new certificates would be ready within several days.
“The names remain as they are,” I confirmed.
“All right.”
“But your name will be listed as their father.”
Dante closed his eyes.
For one second, his expression lost all control.
“All right.”
Outside, we stopped on the sidewalk.
The sun was bright.
People passed.
No camera.
No scandal.
Only an ordinary day.
“Are you crying?” I asked.
“No.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
“Men cry.”
“My daughters taught me.”
I approached.
Kissed his face.
“Congratulations.”
Dante looked at me.
“For what?”
“Now you are their father on paper.”
“I was before.”
“I know.”
“But thank you.”
He embraced me.
That time, there was no fear or hospital.
Only joy.
We remained for several seconds.
Then Dante moved away.
“We need to discuss money.”
The romance died.
“Now?”
“Taking advantage of your good mood.”
“I am no longer in a good mood.”
“The expenses.”
“We already discussed this.”
“You allowed security and school costs. Not food, health, clothing, or housing.”
“I can manage.”
“I know.”
“Then it is settled.”
“No.”
I stopped.
“No?”
“I do not want to use money to occupy a place. But I also refuse to continue without fulfilling financial obligations.”
“Dante…”
“It is not a favor. Or compensation. It is responsibility.”
“And how do you intend to do it?”
“A joint account used exclusively for the children. Both of us have access. Regular expenses divided according to income.”
I laughed.
“According to income? You would pay ninety-nine point nine percent.”
“I can accept ninety.”
“No.”
“Then a fixed amount.”
“Also no.”
“Aurora.”
“I do not want to request authorization to buy shoes.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Or justify it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“And if you disagree?”
“We discuss it.”
“You hate not controlling.”
“I’m improving.”
“A little.”
“Much more.”
I looked at him.
Dante waited.
Did not threaten lawyers.
Did not mention the law.
“One account for education, health, and the future,” I proposed. “You deposit. I do too.”
“How much?”
“We decide with an independent accountant.”
“And everyday expenses?”
“I continue paying.”
His jaw tightened.
“No.”
“Dante.”
“I want to share them.”
“Half?”
“That would not be fair to you.”
“Then proportional.”
“That was what I said.”
“I know.”
“May I use it now?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Proportional, but with a limit. I do not want their standard of living changing overnight.”
“Why?”
“Because they do not need to grow up believing money solves everything.”
“I agree.”
“School remains.”
“Yes.”
“House remains.”
“Yes.”
“Normal clothing.”
“Yes.”
“No three drivers.”
“One?”
“None.”
“Security while necessary.”
“That is different.”
Dante nodded.
“And bicycles?”
The question came casually.
“Do not buy them.”
“Their birthday is near.”
“Not yet.”
“I was only asking.”
“Your face.”
He smiled.
“May I contribute to the party?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Half.”
“That is progress.”
“Do not ruin it.”
We returned to school.
The children ran toward us.
Elisa had red paint on her hands.
Tomás carried a crumpled sheet of paper.
Cecília held her cloth and a new stone.
“Mommy!” Elisa shouted. “My birthday is close.”
I looked at Dante.
“Who told you?”
“Teacher.”
“How many days?” Tomás asked.
“Twenty-two,” I answered.
“Tomorrow?”
“No.”
“After?”
“Many after.”
Cecília opened her fingers.
“One, two, five.”
“Almost,” Dante said.
We entered the car.
“We did something today,” I said.
“What?” Elisa asked.
“Daddy Dante’s name will appear on your birth certificates.”
Silence.
“What’s birth certificate?” Tomás asked.
“A paper saying when you were born and who your parents are.”
Elisa thought.
“Before no Daddy?”
“His name was not there.”
“Why?”
The question.
Always.
“Because he was not present when you were born,” I answered.
Dante continued looking forward.
“Now he is,” Cecília said.
“Now he is.”
“Then put.”
Simple.
“We did.”
Tomás asked:
“Has picture?”
“No.”
“Boring paper.”
Elisa wanted to know whether she could take it to school.
“You don’t need to.”
“I want show I have Daddy.”
Her voice contained no sadness.
Only pride.
Dante closed his eyes for a second.
“You may show a copy later,” I said.
“You go school with me?” she asked him.
“When your mother allows.”
“She allows.”
She looked at me.
“I do.”
That afternoon, we began planning the birthday.
Four years old.
The children wanted three separate parties.
Elisa wanted princesses.
Tomás, dinosaurs.
Cecília, the moon.
“We can combine them,” Dante suggested.
“Princess dinosaur on moon,” Elisa said.
Tomás shouted:
“Space dino!”
Cecília smiled.
“Moon.”
Resolved.
The party would be held in the studio’s backyard.
Small.
Classmates.
Mrs. Lurdes.
Marta.
Miguel.
People from town.
No press.
Nothing luxurious.
Dante accepted it.
For almost five minutes.
“We can install a tent in case it rains.”
“Yes.”
“A generator.”
“No.”
“If the electricity fails.”
“It is an afternoon children’s party.”
“Lighting.”
“Sun.”
“Refrigeration for the food.”
“Mrs. Lurdes will manage.”
“Medical team?”
I looked at him.
“No.”
“Tomás has an allergy.”
“The pen will be there.”
“One discreet nurse.”
“Dante.”
“It is prudent.”
I considered it.
“One trained person on the support staff. No uniform.”
“All right.”
“And do not hire fifty people.”
“How many?”
“Ten.”
“Twenty.”
“Twelve.”
“Fifteen.”
“Thirteen.”
He smiled.
“Agreed.”
“You negotiated a party staff with me.”
“Small victories.”
The children ran around us.
I watched Dante kneeling on the floor, drawing a dinosaur wearing a crown and a space helmet.
It was terrible.
Elisa said so.
Tomás said it resembled a shoe.
Cecília drew a moon beside it.
That was our life.
Documents.
Money.
Future.
And bad drawings on a child-sized table.
Later, when the children slept, I found Dante in the backyard.
“Thinking?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Dangerous.”
“Very.”
I sat beside him.
“About what?”
“The certificates.”
“Happy?”
“More than I should be over a piece of paper.”
“You may be.”
“I also thought about the surname.”
“Do not pressure.”
“I won’t.”
“Then?”
“Maybe I should use Valen?a.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Dante Ferraz Valen?a would sound strange.”
“Very.”
“But I thought about it.”
“Why?”
“Because my children carry it. You carry it. The museum carries it.”
“And your name?”
“I do not want to erase Ferraz. I want to answer for what it means and change what I can.”
“Then you do not need to add mine.”
“I know.”
“The name does not create family.”
“I know.”
“Dante.”
“I’m sorry.”
I smiled.
He took my hand.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
I thought.
The answer did not come with immediate fear.
“I am.”
Dante kissed my fingers.
“So am I.”
“Do not turn it into a proposal.”
“I won’t.”
“Not today.”
“No.”
We remained beneath the dark sky.
The house was still mine.
His stood across town.
The museum remained closed.
The past still existed.
Even so, our children would have their father’s name on their birth certificates.
Not because he demanded it.
Because his presence finally occupied the place the paper merely recognized.