3.
OLíVIA SAMPAIO
My mother arrives at the clinic carrying enough food to feed half the town.
“I told you not to bring lunch.”
“And I decided you were wrong.”
Marta sets two bags on the front desk and kisses the top of Manuela’s head.
“My girl.”
“Grandma, Mommy won’t let me run.”
“Your mother is a tyrant.”
“Mom.”
She turns to me.
“What? I’m winning over the child.”
Manuela giggles.
My mother is fifty-eight, with brown hair now streaked with gray and an almost supernatural ability to enter any room as though the deed were in her name.
Five years ago, we hadn’t spoken for nearly two weeks when my wedding was supposed to happen.
She hated everything about it.
The size.
The spectacle.
The Villar family.
Leonardo most of all.
I accused her of being prejudiced.
Told her she was judging a man because of his surname.
A few hours later, I showed up on her doorstep wearing the remains of my wedding dress and collapsed into her arms.
Marta never once said, I told you so.
It may be one of the reasons I can still forgive almost anything she does.
“How is she?” she asks, lowering her voice.
I glance toward Manuela.
She’s sitting beside Theo, Camila’s son, drawing a pink heart with arms.
“Renata wants another evaluation.”
“In Belo Horizonte?”
“Maybe.”
My mother catches the hesitation.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“She mentioned the Villar Institute.”
Marta goes completely still.
“No.”
“That was my answer too.”
“Then that’s settled.”
“It isn’t that simple.”
“It is extremely simple. There are other hospitals.”
“There are.”
“Choose one.”
I exhale.
“She says their team is one of the best.”
My mother’s anger changes.
It doesn’t disappear.
It collides with fear.
“Are they the best?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
I nod.
“I’m asking for more opinions.”
Marta closes a hand around my arm.
“Olívia, if they really are the best option—”
“No.”
“Listen to me.”
“You were the one who just said no.”
“As your mother. Now I’m trying to think like her grandmother.”
“I’m not putting Manuela in Leonardo’s hands.”
“He’s not a surgeon.”
“His name is on the building.”
“His name isn’t operating on her heart.”
I close my eyes.
“You didn’t see what happened in that church.”
“I saw what happened after.”
My throat tightens.
“That was worse.”
“I know.”
Marta steps closer.
“But your daughter cannot pay the price because none of us ever wants to look at that family again.”
Before I can answer, Manuela appears.
“Who has to pay?”
My mother smiles immediately.
“For lunch.”
“I have money.”
Manuela fishes a one-real coin from her pocket.
Marta accepts it solemnly.
“Excellent. Dessert is on you.”
“Can I buy chocolate?”
“Absolutely.”
“Not before lunch,” I say.
They both look at me with the exact same expression.
It is deeply unfair to be outnumbered in my own family.
We spend the next twenty minutes eating in the small staff kitchen.
álvaro arrives as we are finishing.
My stepfather still works as a carpenter, though he takes fewer commissions now. His shirt carries the familiar smell of wood and sawdust.
Manuela runs straight for him.
“Grandpa!”
He scoops her up.
“You’ve grown since yesterday.”
“I have not.”
“Pretty sure you have.”
“How much?”
álvaro pretends to measure her.
“Twenty centimeters.”
“Liar.”
“Fine. Five.”
She laughs.
I watch them.
álvaro came into my life when I was eight. He never demanded that I call him Dad. Never tried to erase the man who had walked away from me.
He just stayed.
Showed up for school exams.
Fixed my first bicycle.
Waited outside while I took my entrance tests.
And when Marta refused to attend the wedding, álvaro agreed to walk me down the aisle—after spending the entire morning asking whether I was absolutely certain.
Maybe I should have listened to more people that day.
“You’ve got your surgery face,” he says after Manuela goes back to drawing.
“I have a surgery face?”
“You do.”
I tell him what Renata said.
álvaro sits down.
“Villar?”
“Maybe.”
He doesn’t react with the same anger as my mother.
It’s worse.
He goes silent.
“Say something.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“That it’s a terrible idea.”
“If it’s the best hospital for her, it’s not terrible.”
Marta folds her arms.
“So now both of you are going to be sensible?”
“Someone has to.”
I look at álvaro.
“Leonardo controls the group.”
“That doesn’t mean he knows the name of every patient who walks through the door.”
“He would notice mine.”
“Sampaio,” my mother says.
Manuela is registered simply as Manuela Sampaio.
No father listed.
No Villar.
“Still.”
“You think Leonardo searches hospital records for every Sampaio who comes in?” álvaro asks.
“No.”
The bitterness in my voice surprises even me.
Leonardo never looked for the baby he knew I was carrying.
Why would he start now?
“Send the records,” my mother says. “No commitment. If they really are the best team, you decide what to do after.”
I look through the kitchen doorway.
Manuela is coloring the heart with absolute concentration.
“I’ll think about it.”
My phone rings.
Renata again.
“I got another referral,” she tells me. “A center in Curitiba. I can send the case for review.”
Relief rushes through me.
“Where?”
She gives me the details.
“Great.”
“But I still want authorization to send the files to the Villar Institute too.”
I close my eyes.
“Renata.”
“Only the medical records. I can strip out identifying information if that helps.”
“That’s possible?”
“I can request an anonymized technical opinion.”
I think.
“Do it.”
My mother studies my face when I end the call.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Olívia.”
“I authorized an anonymous review.”
Marta lets out a breath.
“That isn’t going back to him.”
“I know.”
My body doesn’t.
That night, after Manuela is asleep, I find myself staring at an article on my phone.
OTáVIO VILLAR DIES AT 67; SON TAKES CONTROL AMID FAMILY DISPUTE
The photograph shows Leonardo leaving an office building.
Five years have barely touched him.
Same face.
Same shoulders.
Same expression of a man who refuses to admit anything in this world can reach him.
I close the article.
I didn’t know his father had died.
I didn’t know the family was fighting over the group.
I shouldn’t care.
My thumb hovers over the screen before I lock it.
For years, I was afraid I would accidentally see Leonardo in the news.
Eventually, I stopped.
Maybe because knowing he still existed somewhere in the world was different from allowing him to exist inside mine.
I go to Manuela’s room.
She’s asleep with Bento tucked against her chest.
I press two fingers to her wrist.
Normal.
I move a strand of hair away from her face.
The evaluation is anonymous.
It’s only a hospital.
Only doctors.
Only an option.
I repeat the words until they begin to sound almost true.