49.
DANTE FERRAZ
Planning a wedding with Aurora was more difficult than negotiating a corporate restructuring.
She said small.
I said comfortable.
She said thirty people.
I found thirty-eight essential guests.
“Who is Ricardo?” she asked, looking at the list.
“My assistant.”
“I don’t know him.”
“He kept my life operating while I was here.”
“Invite him.”
“Then thirty-one.”
“Remove Sérgio.”
“He is not on the list.”
“Someone else.”
“Aurora.”
“Thirty-five maximum.”
“Agreed.”
We chose the church.
The same one.
The new priest understood.
“I do not want a repetition,” Aurora explained.
“Of course.”
“Not the same music.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps no traditional entrance.”
“We can adapt it.”
“No guests watching while I walk alone.”
I held her hand.
“What do you want?”
She thought.
“I want to enter with the children.”
My chest tightened.
“Yes.”
“The girls with me. Perhaps Tomás with you.”
“Or all of us together.”
“Then there is no entrance.”
“We enter as a family.”
Aurora smiled.
“Maybe.”
The wedding would happen six months after the proposal.
Enough time to prepare and live through the engagement without rushing.
The children would be several months older.
Still four.
Still unpredictable.
Elisa wanted to be a bride too.
Cecília wanted a dress with moons.
Tomás wanted a cape.
We allowed it.
The rings would be carried inside a small box attached to a wooden dinosaur restored by Aurora.
Tomás’s idea.
Safely executed.
I would retrieve my old wedding ring.
Not to wear.
To place inside the private memorial of our history beside the ultrasound box.
The old ring represented rupture.
The new one, choice.
Aurora wanted to see it.
I opened the safe.
She held it.
The gold remained intact.
“You removed it there,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I had not put mine on yet.”
“No.”
“I never wore it.”
“Do you still have it?”
“In my jewelry box.”
“What will you do?”
“Keep it.”
“Together?”
“Maybe.”
In the end, we placed both old rings inside the white box.
Beside the tiny shoes.
Not hidden.
Not publicly displayed.
Ours.
Otávio’s trial ended before the ceremony.
A long sentence.
The agreement reduced it.
Even so, he would probably die in prison.
Aurora did not attend the sentencing.
She read it later.
“Do you feel anything?” I asked.
“Relief.”
“Only that?”
“And grief for the uncle I thought I had.”
“He never existed?”
“Parts of him may have.”
“That makes it worse.”
“Yes.”
I held her.
Did not fix it.
The group’s audit also ended.
The involved board members were removed.
Sérgio was arrested for receiving stolen property and money laundering.
Assets sold.
Works returned.
The company lost value but survived.
Pérola was confirmed as president.
I maintained a strategic position.
I worked three days a week on group matters.
Two on heritage and foundation projects.
No rigid structure survived the children.
But there was balance.
On the eve of the wedding, I had therapy.
“Afraid?” the psychologist asked.
“Very.”
“Of repeating the past?”
“Yes.”
“What is different?”
“Everything.”
“And you?”
I thought.
“I listen.”
“Always?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I notice faster. Ask for correction. I do not use certainty as a defense.”
“And if Aurora enters the church and changes her mind?”
The question hurt.
“I respect it.”
“Even in front of the guests?”
“Yes.”
“Even after everything?”
“Yes.”
“That is love without control.”
Perhaps.
That night, I slept at Miguel’s house.
A tradition proposed by Mrs. Lurdes.
Aurora remained with the children.
“We did not need to separate,” I said.
“You need to miss her,” Mrs. Lurdes replied.
“I already do.”
“One night.”
Miguel poured whiskey.
“I don’t drink much.”
“Good. More for me.”
We sat.
“You hated me,” I said.
“I still do not like you much.”
“Fair.”
“But you are a good father.”
His approval meant something.
“And for Aurora?”
“You’re learning.”
“Only that?”
“Do you want praise?”
“No.”
“You do.”
I drank.
“Is she happy?”
Miguel thought.
“She is choosing.”
A better answer.
On the morning of the wedding, I woke at five.
Cecília sent a voice message at six.
“Daddy, today you stay altar.”
My chest tightened.
I replied:
“I stay.”
She sent another.
“Promise concrete.”
I thought.
“I promise to wait in the agreed place and speak to your mother before making any decision.”
Aurora had probably coached her.
At ten, I arrived at the church.
Few guests.
Simple flowers.
No press.
Discreet security.
The priest.
Mrs. Lurdes in the front row.
Miguel beside her.
Marta.
Pérola.
People from the museum.
Thirty-five.
Exactly.
I waited near a side entrance.
Not at the altar.
Aurora did not want to find me only at the end.
We would enter together.
When she arrived, I saw her in the courtyard.
A pale, simple dress with delicate sleeves.
A short veil.
Elisa and Cecília wore different dresses.
Elisa with a small crown.
Cecília with embroidered moons.
Tomás wore a blue cape over his suit.
The dinosaur carrying the rings was in his hands.
Aurora stopped when she saw me.
For one second, fear appeared.
I approached.
Did not touch.
“Do you want to leave?”
She breathed.
“No.”
“Do you want to wait?”
“A little.”
“We’ll wait.”
The children became restless.
Elisa asked whether the party was beginning.
Tomás dropped the dinosaur.
The rings were attached.
Safe.
Cecília held her mother’s hand.
“Daddy is here.”
“He is,” Aurora answered.
She looked at me.
“I’m ready.”
“May I touch you?”
She held out her hand.
I took it.
All five of us entered.
No opening music.
Only footsteps.
People stood.
Aurora tightened her hand around mine.
She did not stop.
Halfway down the aisle, Cecília said:
“This where Mommy was sad?”
The silence grew heavy.
Aurora stopped.
She crouched.
“It was.”
“Now?”
“Now I’m with all of you.”
Cecília embraced her.
So did Elisa.
Tomás attempted it while holding the dinosaur.
I knelt.
All five of us in the middle of the church.
No hurry.
No planned spectacle.
When they stood, we continued.
Before the altar, I remained beside Aurora.
I did not face her until she positioned herself.
The priest spoke about choice, truth, and repair.
Not submission.
Not forgetting.
Then came the vows.
Aurora began.
“Four years ago, I believed this place would forever prove that loving someone was dangerous.”
My throat closed.
“Today, I am not here to erase that day. I am here to choose another one.”
She looked at the children.
“I choose the man who returned, stayed, and learned to be a father. I choose the man who listens even when listening hurts. I choose you knowing we are not perfect and do not need to pretend.”
Tears came.
“I do not promise to forget. I promise to speak. I do not promise never to be afraid. I promise not to use fear as silence. I promise to choose our family without abandoning myself.”
My heart seemed unable to endure it.
When it was my turn, I breathed.
“Aurora, I have no right to ask you to make this place mean something different.”
She held my hand.
“But I am grateful that you have allowed me to stand here again.”
I looked at the triplets.
“I promise not to use love as a justification for control. I promise to tell you the truth before I have every answer. I promise to remain a father regardless of any conflict between us. I promise not to disappear.”
Cecília sniffled.
“Concrete,” she whispered.
The guests laughed quietly.
“I promise to tell you when I need to leave, return when agreed, and explain when I cannot.”
She accepted that.
“And I promise to choose you not only on happy days, but on the days when the altar returns to your memory, the days when you distrust me, and the days when I make mistakes and need to correct them. I do not want one single second chance. I want to earn every day.”
Tomás raised the dinosaur.
“Rings!”
The priest laughed.
“Not yet.”
“Takes too long.”
We received the rings.
The new one entered Aurora’s finger.
Mine too.
I did not remove it.
Would not remove it to hurt her.
When the priest announced us, I kissed her.
The children celebrated.
Elisa attempted to participate in the kiss.
Tomás hugged our legs.
Cecília cried.
“Why?” Aurora asked.
“Happy.”
“So am I.”
We left together.
The reception happened at the museum.
Small.
Cake.
Music.
Children running.
No long speeches.
Aurora danced with me.
Then with the children.
Mrs. Lurdes cried.
Miguel pretended not to.
That night, we returned home.
The children slept in the car.
I carried Tomás.
Aurora carried Cecília.
Elisa woke and walked.
We placed them in their beds.
Inside our bedroom, Aurora removed her veil.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“I am.”
“Do you regret it?”
“No.”
“Married.”
“Yes.”
I touched her ring.
“Beautiful.”
“Small,” she teased.
“I can replace it.”
“No.”
I kissed her.
That night, we made love as husband and wife.
Not because the title changed our bodies.
Because it carried choice.
Afterward, Aurora lay over me.
“You stayed at the altar,” she said.
“I stayed.”
“So did I.”
“You did.”
“It was not the same.”
“No.”
“Good.”
I held her.
The house was silent.
For several minutes.
Then we heard footsteps.
Elisa opened the door.
“I dreamed wedding.”
Aurora closed her eyes.
“You were there.”
“Want sleep here.”
Tomás and Cecília appeared behind her.
Of course.
All three entered.
Our wedding night ended with five people inside one bed.
“A hotel would have been better,” I murmured.
Aurora laughed.
“Family.”
Cecília positioned herself between us.
“Now everybody stays.”
I looked at Aurora.
“Everybody stays,” I repeated.
It was not a promise against death or the unexpected.
It was a choice against abandonment.
And that was one I could keep.