37.
OLíVIA SAMPAIO
The program Manuela created at the Villar Institute gets a name.
Brave Hearts.
The idea is simple.
Children who have already undergone surgery meet with patients preparing for their own. They talk. Show scars. Draw. Answer questions adults would never know how to answer.
Manuela participates in the first official meeting.
Leonardo watches through the glass.
I stand beside him.
“Are you crying?”
“Allergies.”
“Inside a hospital?”
“Air-conditioning.”
Our daughter sits in front of a six-year-old named Sofia.
Sofia asks whether surgery hurts.
Manuela thinks before answering.
“Afterward, a little. But they give you medicine.”
“And when you wake up?”
“Your mom will be there.”
“What if I don’t have a mom?”
“Someone will.”
Sofia looks toward the social worker.
“My dad.”
“Then he’ll be there.”
“Did you have both?”
Manuela looks through the glass.
Finds us.
“I did.”
The words go straight through me.
Technically, that day, she did.
Leonardo was beside me.
The five years before still exist.
My daughter does not have to carry them into that conversation.
“Was your dad scared?” Sofia asks.
“Very.”
“He’s big.”
“Big grown-ups get scared too.”
Leonardo wipes his eyes.
“Strong air-conditioning,” he mutters.
I take his hand.
Afterward, Manuela receives a small medal.
“I’m a volunteer.”
“You are.”
“Can I come every week?”
“Once a month,” Leonardo negotiates.
“Twice.”
“One.”
“You’re the boss.”
“That doesn’t mean I get to ignore doctors.”
“Twice.”
“We’ll ask the team.”
My daughter looks at me.
“He’s learning.”
“Slowly,” I say.
The program grows.
Other hospitals ask to adopt the model.
Leonardo insists Manuela’s name not be used publicly as its founder.
She is a child.
I agree.
When a magazine asks to photograph our family, he refuses before consulting me.
I should be angry.
I’m not.
Because he finally understood exactly where the boundary was.
That night, after Manuela goes to sleep, I take a pregnancy test in the bathroom.
Leonardo waits outside.
We promised we would do this together.
My hands shake.
“Done?” he asks.
“Two minutes.”
“How long has it been?”
“Twenty seconds.”
“Feels longer.”
“Do not open the door.”
“I won’t.”
One minute.
The silence becomes heavy.
“Olívia?”
“I’m here.”
“Whatever it says—”
“Don’t make a speech.”
“Right.”
When the time is up, I look.
One line.
Then a second shadow, so faint it may not exist at all.
My heart stops.
“Leonardo.”
He opens the door only after I unlock it.
“What?”
I hand him the test.
“Are there two?”
He holds it under the light.
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“It’s faint.”
“I know.”
“Does that mean positive?”
“Maybe.”
“How can it be maybe?”
“It may be early.”
“We need another one.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Now.”
“Leonardo.”
He counts.
I can see it.
“Tomorrow,” he agrees.
We are awake all night.
In the morning, we take another.
Two lines.
Clear.
Leonardo sits down on the bathroom floor.
“Say something.”
“I can’t.”
“Are you happy?”
He starts crying.
I kneel beside him.
“I’m terrified.”
“So am I.”
“And happy.”
“So am I.”
He places both hands over my stomach.
There is nothing to feel yet.
“It’s here.”
“Very small.”
“Ours.”
The word doesn’t hurt.
This time, ours exists from the beginning.
“Do not tell Manuela yet.”
“I won’t.”
“Or your team.”
“No.”
“And do not make a folder.”
“I already thought about it.”
“Leonardo.”
“I won’t.”
Our first appointment is scheduled two weeks later.
Until then, we carry the secret.
It appears in every look.
Every touch.
Every time Leonardo places a hand over my stomach when he thinks no one sees.
Manuela sees.
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“He keeps looking at you.”
“Your father looks at everything.”
“True.”
On the day of the appointment, Leonardo cancels everything.
There was nothing scheduled.
He cancels it anyway.
The doctor performs the ultrasound.
A gestational sac appears.
Tiny.
Then a dot.
A sound.
Fast.
Heartbeat.
Leonardo grips my hand.
He does not cry quietly.
He sobs.
The doctor politely pretends to concentrate on the monitor.
I cry too.
“Is everything okay?”
“For this stage, yes.”
Not absolute certainty.
I accept it.
“One day at a time,” Leonardo whispers.
I look at him.
He’s learning.