3.
DANTE FERRAZ
There were three small chairs surrounding a table covered in paint marks.
That was the first thing I noticed when I returned to Second Layer the following morning.
Not the children.
The chairs.
One yellow, one red, and one blue.
Three places.
Three entire lives I had not been part of.
I remained across the street for nearly ten minutes.
Aurora had not opened the studio yet. The windows were closed, but I could hear voices on the upper floor.
One child cried.
Another shouted something unintelligible.
A third began to sing.
All at once.
A man carrying crates of vegetables passed me and gave my suit a curious glance.
I had dismissed my driver and walked from the hotel.
Santa Brígida did not seem like the sort of place where people wore suits at eight in the morning.
Nor did it seem prepared for the arrival of photographers, security personnel, or official cars.
I needed to learn how to enter Aurora’s life without destroying it again.
The side door opened.
She emerged with Tomás in her arms, a bag hanging from her shoulder, and the two girls clutching her skirt.
“Stay here,” Aurora was saying. “Elisa, don’t let go of Cecília’s hand.”
“Her hand is sweaty.”
“Hold it anyway.”
“I’m not sweaty,” Cecília protested.
“It’s wet.”
“It’s water.”
“From where?”
“Dunno.”
Aurora stopped when she saw me.
The children did too.
Tomás rested his head on her shoulder.
Elisa stared at me with interest.
Cecília hid behind her mother.
“I told you not to come back yesterday,” Aurora said.
“Today is another day.”
“That wasn’t an invitation.”
“I know.”
She adjusted Tomás in her arms.
The boy was larger than he had seemed the day before. He had dark-brown hair that curled at the ends and the same green eyes my mother had possessed.
My eyes.
The resemblance struck me physically.
“What do you want?” Aurora asked.
“To talk.”
“I’m taking the children to school.”
“I can come with you.”
“No.”
“I can wait.”
“I’m working afterward.”
“I’ll wait until you finish.”
She pressed her lips together.
“Dante, this isn’t a business negotiation.”
“I know.”
“Then stop behaving as if persistence were an acceptable strategy.”
“I’m not trying to defeat you.”
“It feels like you are.”
Tomás raised his head.
“Mommy, he’s the sad man.”
Aurora closed her eyes.
Elisa pointed at me.
“I said he was sad.”
“Children, it isn’t polite to say things like that,” Aurora said.
“Are you?” Tomás asked me.
I looked at him.
My son.
I did not know what to say.
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Because I did something wrong.”
Tomás thought about that.
“Broke a vase?”
Aurora turned her face away, perhaps to hide a reaction.
“No,” I answered. “It was worse.”
“Spilled juice on the couch?”
“Worse.”
His eyes widened.
“Hit someone?”
“Tomás,” Aurora warned.
“I didn’t hit anyone.”
“Then say sorry.”
The simple words struck me.
“I did.”
“Then it’s done.”
Aurora released a quiet sound.
“For a three-year-old, perhaps.”
Tomás leaned toward her.
“Want down.”
Aurora placed him on his feet.
He took his mother’s hand.
Elisa touched my suit jacket before Aurora could stop her.
“It’s soft.”
“Elisa.”
She withdrew her hand.
“Sorry.”
“We’re going to be late,” Aurora said.
“I can drive.”
She looked at the rental car parked behind me.
Then at the children.
“Where are the car seats?”
I did not answer.
There were no car seats.
Aurora raised one eyebrow.
“Exactly.”
She began walking.
I followed beside them, maintaining my distance.
“You don’t have to come,” she said.
“I know.”
“Then why are you coming?”
“Because I want to learn their routine.”
“You don’t begin by learning their routine. You begin by respecting boundaries.”
“I’m trying.”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
Elisa tugged Aurora’s hand.
“Mommy, he can carry my backpack.”
The backpack was small and pink, with an embroidered rabbit.
Aurora looked at me.
“No.”
“It’s heavy.”
“You didn’t complain before.”
“Now it is.”
I bent down.
“I can carry it.”
Aurora did not authorize it.
Elisa slipped the strap from her shoulder and placed the backpack in my hands.
“Careful. There’s play dough.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Tomás watched us.
“Mine too.”
“Tomás,” Aurora said.
He was already removing his blue backpack.
Cecília held tightly to her own.
“Not mine.”
“That’s all right,” I said.
She looked at me for a second.
Then hid again.
We walked along the cobblestone streets.
Elisa asked questions throughout the journey.
She wanted to know where I lived, whether I had a dog, why my shoes were shiny, and whether I knew how to draw unicorns.
Tomás interrupted to correct things that did not require correction.
Cecília remained silent.
So did Aurora.
The school was three blocks away, inside a green house with a low gate.
As soon as we arrived, a woman opened her arms.
“My darlings!”
Elisa ran toward her.
Tomás followed.
Cecília continued holding Aurora.
“Come on, sweetheart,” the teacher called. “We’re painting today.”
Cecília shook her head.
“No.”
Aurora crouched.
“You liked it yesterday.”
“Don’t like it today.”
“Mommy has to work.”
Cecília’s eyes filled with tears.
“Stay.”
“I’ll come back after lunch.”
“Now.”
“I can’t stay now.”
The girl wrapped her arms around Aurora’s neck.
Aurora closed her eyes for a moment and embraced her.
There was no impatience.
Only exhaustion.
“Would you like your cloth?” she asked.
Cecília nodded.
Aurora removed a small piece of blue fabric from her bag.
The girl pressed it against her face.
“Ms. Marta will take care of you.”
“Mommy comes back?”
“Always.”
The word sliced through my chest.
Always.
Aurora kissed her daughter’s forehead.
Cecília allowed the teacher to pick her up but kept her eyes on her mother until the gate closed.
Aurora remained standing there for several seconds.
“Does she do that every day?” I asked.
“Since she changed classes.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Two weeks.”
“And you leave her?”
Aurora turned slowly.
I knew I had made a mistake before she answered.
“I leave my daughter in a safe school because I need to work.”
“I wasn’t criticizing.”
“You were.”
“I asked because she seemed frightened.”
“She doesn’t like changes. She needs more time to adjust.”
“Is there a reason?”
“She’s three.”
The answer was sharp.
“Right.”
Aurora began walking back.
I returned the backpacks to the teacher and followed her.
“I need to know about them.”
“Not today.”
“About their health, school, and routine.”
She stopped.
“You don’t need to know. You want to know.”
“They’re my children.”
“Biologically.”
There was that word again.
“How long do you intend to punish me with that?”
Aurora became completely still.
I knew I had made another mistake.
“Punish you?” she repeated.
“I didn’t mean…”
“My children are not instruments of punishment.”
“I know that.”
“You don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have said it.”
“I’m trying to understand what place I can occupy.”
“None, for now.”
“That isn’t fair.”
She laughed.
“Fair?”
“To them.”
“Don’t use my children to pressure me.”
“They have a right to know their father.”
“A father isn’t an abstract right, Dante. A father is a person who shows up, feeds them, cares for them, wakes in the middle of the night, changes wet clothes, cleans vomit, knows the pediatrician’s name, and knows which cup belongs to each child.”
“I can learn.”
“And once you learn, perhaps you’ll discover you don’t like it.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know I want to try.”
“Attempts have consequences when small children are involved.”
Her anger was not explosive.
It was disciplined.
Built over years.
“Elisa becomes attached quickly,” she continued. “Tomás trusts anyone willing to play with him. Cecília takes longer, but once she trusts someone, she feels every absence as abandonment. I will not let you enter their lives to ease your conscience and disappear when reality stops being moving.”
“I won’t disappear.”
“You already disappeared once.”
“I didn’t know they existed.”
“You knew at least one did.”
I could not answer.
Aurora resumed walking.
“Tell me what you need from me,” I asked.
“Distance.”
“Other than that.”
“There is no other than that.”
“I want paternity tests.”
She stopped again.
“To confirm?”
“No. To formalize everything legally. I want to acknowledge them, guarantee their rights, and add my name to their birth certificates.”
“You will not do anything without speaking to me.”
“Of course.”
“No lawyers.”
“Agreed.”
“No investigators.”
“I already sent investigators.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“That’s how I found you.”
“Do not investigate my life anymore.”
“I won’t.”
“Or the children.”
“Agreed.”
“And don’t buy them anything.”
I glanced at the display window of a children’s shop across the street.
Aurora noticed.
“Nothing.”
“I can’t give them presents?”
“Not while they don’t know who you are.”
“When are you going to tell them?”
“I still haven’t decided whether I’ll allow you to stay.”
“You can’t keep me away forever.”
Her face closed off.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“It sounds like one.”
“I’m saying I’m their father and intend to assume my responsibilities.”
“Responsibility does not begin with a lawsuit.”
“I didn’t mention a lawsuit.”
“But you thought about one.”
I did not deny it.
Aurora nodded slowly.
“Do it.”
“What?”
“Go to court. Request recognition, visitation, shared custody. Put men in suits in a room and explain why you abandoned a pregnant woman and spent four years without trying to discover whether the child was born.”
“Aurora…”
“Maybe you’ll get a schedule. Tuesdays and Thursdays, alternate weekends. That’s how your mind works, isn’t it? Everything divided, anticipated, and documented.”
“I don’t want to rip them away from you.”
“Then don’t behave like a man who would.”
The church bell rang in the distance.
Aurora continued.
“You want a chance? Begin by respecting the fact that I do not trust you.”
“How can I prove anything without approaching them?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need an answer.”
“So did I four years ago.”
She crossed the street.
I remained on the sidewalk.
Aurora did not look back.
For the first time, I realized that the true problem was not convincing her that I had changed.
It was discovering whether I was truly capable of changing.