Chapter 25 #2
I brought the photograph closer to my face, searching for a different explanation. Perhaps Maria Rita was just accompanying Aline. Perhaps it was an appointment for the couple’s daughter. Who knows—maybe her presence there didn’t mean what my mind was already beginning to scream.
I picked up the next photo.
Maria Rita was leaving the clinic, clutching a white envelope to her chest. The wind blew her loose blouse away from her body, outlining her still-slender waist. One of her hands rested on the lower part of her belly in an instinctive gesture of protection.
It wasn’t irrefutable proof, but I knew every movement that woman made. I knew the way she touched her own body when she was scared, the way she bit the corner of her lip when keeping a secret, and the tenderness with which she was now protecting her belly.
The memories flooded back.
The morning my mother died. Maria Rita beneath me, her eyes locked on mine as she took me completely inside her. Her legs wrapped around my waist. The moan of my name against my neck. The way I came inside her without a care in the world, because we’d been talking about starting a family.
“I love you so much it hurts.” I said that just a few hours before calling her trash.
I stood up, but my legs couldn’t support me. I fell back into the chair, taking the photograph with me. The paper curled under the pressure of my fingers. She was pregnant. Maria Rita was carrying my child.
The realization didn’t bring the joy I’d imagined I’d feel upon discovering I was going to be a father. It only fueled a terror so deep that my breathing became short and painful.
I didn’t know if she had already known about the pregnancy when I threw her out, if she had gone hungry while carrying our child, if she had slept on the street while a life grew silently inside her, if the freezing rain and fear had put both of them at risk.
There wasn’t just one victim that night.
I rested my elbows on the table and hid my face in my hands. The first sob burst from my throat before I could hold it back. It was a harsh, humiliating sound, followed by another and then another.
I cried as I hadn’t been able to cry at my mother’s coffin. I cried for the woman I had condemned, for the child who might never let me into their life, and for the despicable man I had become when she needed me most.
The phone lay on the table. I picked it up and looked for Henrique’s number. I’d gotten the number that morning through my lawyer, though I hadn’t found the courage to call.
I pressed the button before fear could stop me.
Henrique answered after the third ring.
“Eduardo Vasconcelos.” He said my name without surprise, showing that he’d recognized the number. “I was wondering how long it would take you.”
“I know where she is.” I clutched the photograph between my fingers, keeping my eyes on Maria Rita’s hand as she cradled her belly. “And I know she’s pregnant.”
There was silence on the other end for a few seconds.
“So now you know you didn’t just abandon one person in that storm.” Henrique didn’t raise his voice, but every word struck a raw nerve inside me. “Congratulations, Eduardo. You’ve managed to turn the discovery of the pregnancy into yet another memory Maria Rita will have to survive.”
“My investigators followed her after she left the police station.”
“You sent men after a pregnant woman who’s already afraid of being arrested because of her family?”
“I’ve already pulled them all off.” I ran a hand over my face, futilely wiping away the tears. “I don’t want to scare her or hurt her again. I just needed to know if she was alive.”
“Now you know.”
“Henrique, I need to see her.”
“No.” The answer came immediately, firm and unyielding. “You want to see her. ‘Need’ is what she felt when she begged for help and you shut the door on her.”
Guilt squeezed the air from my lungs.
“I know I have no right to ask for anything.”
“Finally, we agree on something.”
“But tell her I know about the baby.” I sat up straight in my chair, even though there was no dignity left to survive that conversation.
“Tell her I won’t try to take the child, I won’t use lawyers against her, and I won’t show up at your house.
I just want a chance to look her in the eyes and take responsibility for everything I’ve done. ”
Henrique remained silent.
“I won’t ask her to come back,” I continued, pressing the photograph against my chest. “Nor will I ask her to forgive me. I just want Maria Rita to hear from me that I know she’s innocent and that there’s no justification for what I did.”
“You still don’t know if she’s innocent. You’re starting to suspect—either because the investigation is flimsy or because you found out about the pregnancy.”
The accusation hurt because it contained a grain of truth.
“I know Maria Rita.” My throat tightened when I realized the cruelty of that statement.
“Or I should have known her. She didn’t kill my mother.
If had believed that from the start, I wouldn’t be trying to find an explanation for her every action.
I turned the lack of evidence into certainty because I needed to hate someone. ”
“And you chose the most defenseless person.”
“Yes.” I didn’t try to shield myself from the verdict. “I chose the woman who depended on me for everything because I knew she wouldn’t have the strength to fight back.”
Admitting that out loud destroyed the last wall supporting the image I had of myself.
Henrique let out a heavy sigh.
“I’ll tell her you called. Maria Rita will decide if she wants to see you. If she says no, you’ll respect that.”
“I will.”
“Even if she never allows you to get close to the child?”
The question punched a hole right in the center of my chest. My instinct demanded that I say that child was mine too, that I had rights, and that no man could stop me from getting to know her.
However, rights had been the weapon I’d used my whole life to control people.
If I truly intended to change, I needed to start by accepting that Maria Rita didn’t owe me any trust.
“I’ll prove that I’m not a threat to them,” I replied, pressing the cell phone against my ear. “Even if it takes years and she never comes back to me.”
“I hope you’re telling the truth.”
The call ended.
I remained seated, surrounded by photographs of the life Maria Rita was building far away from me. In the photo I still held in my hands, she was cradling her belly as she walked with her head held high, unaware that I was watching from afar the first sign of our baby’s existence.
I brought the photograph to my lips, kissing the spot where her hand rested.
I had always believed that the greatest pain of my life would be burying my mother. I was wrong. The greatest suffering was discovering that my wife was carrying my child and that they might grow up as if I didn’t exist.