EPILOGUE 2
OLíVIA SAMPAIO VILLAR
EIGHTEEN YEARS LATER
There is a pregnancy test on the bathroom counter.
It isn’t mine.
At sixty, that would be more than unexpected.
It belongs to Manuela.
My daughter is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, her hands clenched in her lap.
The woman in front of me is a pediatric cardiologist, the mother of two girls, director of the Brave Hearts program, and someone who has lived through situations that would bring most adults to their knees.
Right now, she looks five years old.
“Two lines,” I say.
“I saw.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“Scared?”
“Very.”
I sit beside her.
“Have you done bloodwork?”
“Not yet.”
“Does Caio know?”
She shakes her head.
“I wanted to tell you first.”
My heart tightens.
“Why?”
“Because I’m scared the baby will have the same condition.”
“You and Caio did genetic counseling before the girls.”
“I know.”
“You’ll do it again.”
“I know.”
“That doesn’t make the fear disappear.”
“No.”
I take her hand.
“What do you need?”
Manuela looks at me.
“For you to tell me everything is going to be okay.”
I think of every time I wanted the same certainty.
Every doctor who refused to give it.
Leonardo making promises before he learned love could not control outcomes.
“I can’t promise everything.”
Her eyes fill with tears.
“But I can promise you will not be alone for a single moment.”
Manuela rests her head on my shoulder.
“Dad is going to panic.”
“A lot.”
“He’ll make a spreadsheet.”
“Definitely.”
“And hire a doctor.”
“Three.”
She laughs through her tears.
The bathroom door opens.
Leonardo appears.
His hair is almost entirely gray now.
His eyes are the same.
“Why did you lock the door?”
“We didn’t.”
He sees the test.
Stops.
Looks at me.
Then at Manuela.
“Whose is that?”
“Dad,” she says.
Her voice breaks.
Leonardo walks in slowly.
“Yours?”
She nods.
He closes his eyes.
When he opens them again, he is already crying.
“Allergies,” I say.
“Humid bathroom.”
Manuela laughs.
He kneels in front of her.
Even after all these years, he still chooses to put himself at the same height whenever his daughter is afraid.
“Are you happy?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Scared?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
“You’re not the one who’s pregnant.”
“I’m still scared.”
He takes her hands.
“We’ll schedule the tests.”
“Dad.”
“Asking first,” he corrects himself. “Do you want me to help schedule them?”
“Yes.”
“Can I speak to genetics?”
“Yes.”
“And Artur?”
“He’s retired.”
“He still answers my calls.”
“Do not wake him at five.”
“Fine.”
“And no spreadsheet.”
Leonardo looks at me.
“A small one?”
“Dad.”
“No spreadsheet.”
Manuela breathes.
“I still haven’t told Caio.”
“Then we should go,” I say.
I stand.
Leonardo stays where he is.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you happy?”
He touches her face.
“When I found out you existed, I thought the greatest miracle of my life was being given the chance to know you.”
His voice fails.
“Then you let me become your father. And now you’re giving me another grandchild.”
“It’s still very small.”
“It already exists.”
The same words he once said about Laura.
Manuela starts crying.
Hugs him.
I watch.
For several seconds, I am back at the clinic.
A dark-eyed little girl clutching a rabbit.
A man standing in front of her, unable to breathe.
Five years lost.
Decades rebuilt.
Leonardo reaches one hand toward me.
I move closer.
The three of us hug in my grown daughter’s bathroom.
Not especially elegant.
Families rarely are in the moments that matter.
“I need to tell Caio,” Manuela says.
“We’ll go.”
“Stay close.”
“In the living room.”
“Without listening behind the door.”
I look at Leonardo.
“He can’t promise that.”
“I can.”
“Lie,” Manuela and I say together.
We leave laughing.
In the living room, our granddaughters are playing with Laura and her little boy.
Caio is in the kitchen.
Manuela walks toward him with the test.
Leonardo starts positioning himself near the hallway.
I catch his hand.
“Space.”
“I’m far away.”
“Six feet.”
“It’s a small room.”
“Come.”
I drag him onto the porch.
The garden is full.
Children.
Grandchildren.
Toys.
Voices.
The life that did not exist when I walked out of that church.
“Another baby,” Leonardo murmurs. “I need to update the trust.”
“Calm down. When the baby is born, not now.”
“Right.”
“And you are not naming a hospital after them.”
“I hadn’t even thought of it.”
I look at him.
“I thought about it a little.”
I smile.
He wraps his hands around my waist.
“Happy?”
“Very.”
“Scared?”
“A little.”
“Can it increase?”
“That phrase is almost fifty years old.”
“Still works.”
A shout comes from inside.
Caio.
Then laughter.
Crying.
Leonardo starts to go in.
I stop him.
“Give them a minute.”
“That’s my grandchild.”
“Or granddaughter.”
“We need to know.”
“In several months.”
“That is absurd.”
I kiss him.
He stops arguing.
When we pull apart, he keeps his forehead against mine.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“This life.”
“We made it together.”
“You started it.”
“We kept going.”
The door opens and Manuela appears, crying and smiling.
“He’s making a list.”
I look at my husband.
“Seems you chose a man just like your father.”
“I hope only the good parts.”
“Therapy helped.”
Leonardo laughs, and we go back inside.
Our family gathers around another promise of presence.
Another forever.
The first time I married Leonardo, I believed love was certainty.
Then I thought it was a lie.
Now I know it is a choice made again and again.
Sometimes difficult.
Sometimes imperfect.
Still made every day.
Forgiveness began as a contract.
Family came as a consequence.
Love, however, stopped following clauses a long time ago.
And it is still here.