EPILOGUE 1
OLíVIA SAMPAIO VILLAR
TWO YEARS LATER
Two pink lines should never have the power to send time backward.
And yet the moment they appeared in front of me, I stopped being a married woman, loved and safe inside the life I had built.
I was twenty-three again.
Back in the bathroom of the small apartment where I lived before Leonardo, holding another pregnancy test between my fingers and wondering how I would tell the man I loved that there was a baby growing inside me.
The first time, I was happy.
Scared, but happy.
Leonardo found me sitting on the bathroom floor, crying and laughing at the same time. He knelt in front of me, took the test, and stayed silent for so long that I thought he didn’t want the baby.
Then he wrapped his arms around me.
Kissed my face.
My still-flat stomach.
Promised that our child would never have to wonder whether they had been wanted.
A few months later, he rejected Manuela before he ever met her.
I closed my eyes.
The bathroom in our house was quiet, washed in pale morning light. On the other side of the door, Leonardo was making Manuela’s breakfast. I could hear him complaining because she had changed her mind about the shape of her toast after he had already cut it.
An ordinary argument.
Small.
Familiar.
“Triangles have less crust,” my daughter explained.
“The amount of crust is exactly the same.”
“It isn’t.”
“Mathematically—”
“Dad, it’s breakfast. Not math.”
I heard Leonardo laugh.
That sound still did something to me.
Not because it was rare anymore.
Because now it lived in our home.
It belonged to mornings and dinners, bedtime stories told in terrible voices, and arguments about how many times a day we were allowed to ask Manuela whether she felt tired.
Leonardo had stayed.
My hands were shaking anyway.
I looked at the test again.
Two lines.
Pregnant.
I was pregnant with Leonardo’s child again.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Olívia?”
Instinctively, I hid the test behind my back.
“Hi.”
“You’ve been in there twenty minutes.”
“I’m taking a shower.”
A pause.
“I don’t hear any water.”
I closed my eyes.
“I haven’t turned it on yet.”
“Are you sick?”
His tone changed immediately.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come in?”
“No.”
Too fast.
The silence on the other side of the door grew heavier.
“All right,” he said eventually. “I’ll wait in the bedroom.”
His footsteps moved away.
I sat on the edge of the bathtub.
I hadn’t planned to take the test that morning.
My period was four days late, but that had happened before. Stress at the clinic, a recent trip, changes in routine—any of those could have explained it.
Still, I had bought the test the night before.
Hidden it in my bag.
Waited until Leonardo fell asleep.
Then waited for morning.
Not because I was afraid of his reaction.
That was what made it so confusing.
I knew he would be happy.
Leonardo had mentioned the possibility of another child a few times, always carefully. Never as a request. Never as some attempt to replace what he had missed with Manuela.
We weren’t trying.
We weren’t preventing it anymore either.
For several months, the possibility had existed between us.
Quiet.
Open.
And still, I took the test alone.
The way I had done almost everything during my first pregnancy.
I placed one hand over my stomach.
Nothing had changed.
No movement.
Only microscopic cells, a promise still too fragile to be called certainty.
My baby.
Our baby.
Warm happiness began to spread beneath the fear.
I didn’t let it grow all the way.
Not yet.
I washed my face, wrapped the test in tissue, and slipped it into the pocket of my robe.
When I came out, Leonardo was sitting on the edge of the bed.
Dressed for work, though his jacket was draped over a chair. Gray had begun to appear at his temples, something he pretended not to notice and I loved.
He stood when he saw me.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
His expression closed.
Not anger.
Concern.
“You said that in the voice you use when something happened.”
“There is no specific voice.”
“There is.”
“You overanalyze.”
“Therapy.”
I tried to smile.
Couldn’t.
Leonardo came closer, but stopped before touching me.
He still did that.
Even after years.
Waited.
Asked without words.
I took the final step.
His arms closed around me immediately.
I pressed my face to his chest and listened to the steady beat beneath his shirt.
A heart I knew calm.
Fast.
Angry.
Terrified.
“You’re scaring me,” he murmured into my hair.
“I know.”
“Is it Manuela?”
“No.”
“The clinic?”
“No.”
“Are you sick?”
That one came out quieter.
I pulled back enough to see his face.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Leonardo, stop asking questions.”
He closed his mouth.
Counted.
I watched the numbers move across his expression.
When he reached ten, he took a slow breath.
“What do you need from me?”
The question almost made me cry.
Not What happened?
Not How do we fix it?
What did I need?
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“And stop agreeing.”
“I can disagree once I know what we’re talking about.”
A nervous laugh escaped me.
His eyes softened.
“Whatever it is, you won’t face it alone.”
Something inside me came undone.
The tears appeared.
Leonardo went pale.
“Olívia.”
I reached into my pocket.
The test felt too small to carry all our memories.
I held it out.
Leonardo stared at it.
Didn’t take it immediately.
His eyes went from the test to my face.
Then back down.
“Is that…”
“Yes.”
“Positive?”
“Two lines means positive.”
“I know what two lines mean.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because I need to hear you say it.”
My throat closed.
“I’m pregnant.”
He didn’t move.
For one second, the past tried to lay itself over the present.
I remembered his silence the first time.
My fear that he didn’t want the baby.
But now I knew Leonardo.
Knew his silences.
This wasn’t rejection.
It was awe.
“Say something.”
He took the test carefully.
“Are you sure?”
“I still need bloodwork.”
“But…”
“I took two tests.”
“Two?”
“One last night.”
Leonardo looked up.
“You did it alone.”
No accusation.
Somehow, that hurt more.
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t know what to say.”
“You could have called me.”
“I know.”
He looked at the test.
The silence returned.
“Are you happy?” I asked.
His head came up immediately.
“You think I’m not?”
“I don’t know what you’re feeling.”
“Everything.”
The word broke.
Leonardo covered part of his face with one hand.
When he looked at me again, there were tears in his eyes.
“I’m happy,” he said. “More than I can explain. And terrified.”
I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“Me too.”
He stepped toward me.
Then stopped.
“Can I touch you?”
I looked at my stomach.
“Nothing has changed yet.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
I nodded.
Leonardo knelt in front of me.
A familiar gesture.
But this time there was no contract.
No proposal.
No witnesses.
Only us.
He placed both hands over my stomach with a tenderness that almost hurt.
Closed his eyes.
A tear slid down his cheek.
“It’s here.”
“Very small.”
“But here.”
I ran my fingers through his hair.
“It’s early.”
“I know.”
“A lot can happen.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want promises.”
Leonardo opened his eyes.
“I won’t promise nothing will go wrong.”
The answer brought relief and pain at once.
“What can you promise?”
He kissed my stomach through the fabric.
“That I won’t miss an appointment because I have a meeting.”
Another kiss.
“That you will never receive test results alone.”
Another.
“That you will never have to beg me to believe you.”
My vision blurred.
“And that this baby will hear, from the first day they’re old enough to understand, that they were wanted.”
I knelt in front of him.
“Manuela was wanted too.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want this pregnancy to become some attempt to repair the first.”
“It won’t.”
“And I don’t want this baby carrying the guilt for years you lost with her.”
“Never.”
“You’ll experience things you didn’t experience with Manuela.”
Pain crossed his face.
“I know.”
“First movements. Appointments. The birth.”
“I know.”
“It may be hard for her.”
“For me too.”
I held his face.
“Then we talk.”
“Every day.”
“No hiding guilt to protect me.”
“No hiding fear to protect me.”
I caught the point.
“You mean the test.”
“I do.”
I looked away.
“The first time I was pregnant, I told you immediately. I handed you that happiness before I even understood what it meant.”
“And I turned it into pain.”
“Yes.”
He didn’t try to soften it.
“This time, part of me wanted to keep the baby to myself for a few days. As if it belonged only to me while nobody else knew.”
“Including me.”
“Including you.”
Leonardo took a breath.
“That hurts.”
“I know.”
“But I understand.”
“I don’t want you to understand just because you think that proves you’ve changed.”
“I don’t.”
He sat on the floor.
Pulled me gently closer.
“I wish you had called me,” he admitted. “I wish I had waited beside you while those lines appeared. But I don’t have the right to turn your fear into an offense against me.”
I rested my forehead against his.
“We can do the next part together.”
“Next part?”
“The blood test.”
“Of course.”
“You don’t need to buy the lab.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
I looked at him.
“I thought about it for one second.”
“Leonardo.”
“I won’t.”
We smiled.
Quick footsteps sounded in the hallway.
The door opened.
Manuela walked in without knocking, wearing her school uniform and carrying her backpack from one strap.
“The coffee is cold.”
She stopped.
Looked at us sitting on the floor.
Then at the test in her father’s hand.
Her expression changed.
“What’s that?”
Leonardo closed his fingers around it.
Too late.
Manuela narrowed her eyes.
“It looks like the test in Sofia’s mom’s video.”
“What video?” I asked.
“She posted that I’m getting a brother.”
My daughter looked at me.
Then Leonardo.
“Are you pregnant?”
“Manuela…”
“Are you?”
This was not how I planned to tell her.
We hadn’t even confirmed anything with a doctor.
“I took a test,” I said. “It was positive.”
Her backpack dropped to the floor.
“There’s a baby?”
“Maybe. It’s still very early.”
“But there could be?”
“Yes.”
She went still.
I expected happiness.
Questions.
A hug.
Manuela looked down.