14.
AURORA VALEN?A
Elisa forgave Dante before I did.
The morning after the telephone call, she asked three times why he was not coming.
I explained that we needed a day without visitors.
She said she had already forgiven him.
For her, the incident had ended the moment he admitted his mistake.
I did not possess that ease.
I spent the night replaying the scene.
His hand knocking Elisa’s away.
Her crying.
My body had reacted before I could think.
I did not allow spanking.
Ever.
I had been raised by loving, although strict, parents. My father used punishments and scoldings, but he never hit us.
Dante, from the little he had told me during our relationship, had experienced a different childhood.
His father believed in physical discipline.
At the time, Dante had mentioned it without emotion, as if discussing the weather.
I had not asked any more questions.
Perhaps I should have.
Not to absolve him.
To understand him.
Mrs. Lurdes found me folding children’s clothes in the living room.
“Will you let him come back?”
“For one hour.”
“Why?”
“Because he acknowledged the mistake.”
“And because Elisa asked.”
“That too.”
“Do you trust him?”
“No.”
“But do you believe he won’t do it again?”
I stopped.
“I want to believe it.”
“That is already something.”
“Not enough.”
The following afternoon, Dante arrived without a backpack.
Without coffee.
Without any object.
He appeared more tense than he had during our first reunion.
Elisa ran toward him.
“My hand is good.”
He knelt.
“May I see?”
She showed it to him.
Dante did not touch until she held it out.
“I’m sorry again.”
“It’s okay.”
“It isn’t simply okay. What I did was wrong.”
Elisa looked at me.
“He talks a lot.”
“He does.”
“Can I hug?”
Dante closed his eyes for a second.
“You can.”
She embraced him.
Tomás ran over to join them.
Cecília watched.
“I spoke to a psychologist,” Dante said later while the children played.
“One session does not change anyone.”
“I know.”
“What did she say?”
“That I reacted from an ingrained pattern. Fear, loss of control, and an automatic physical response.”
“That explains it. It doesn’t justify it.”
“Exactly what she said.”
I crossed my arms.
“Will you continue?”
“Weekly.”
“Even if I don’t allow visits?”
“Yes.”
The answer surprised me.
“Why?”
“Because they remain my children even if I don’t see them. And because I don’t want to be a man who reacts that way.”
“You didn’t hit hard.”
“The force isn’t the point.”
He understood.
That mattered.
“My father hit me,” he said.
I remained silent.
“With a belt sometimes. With his hand most of the time. I don’t consider that I had a terrible childhood. My mother was present. We had comfort, school, travel.”
“Comfort does not prevent fear.”
“I know that now.”
“And your mother?”
“She said my father was educating me.”
“Did you believe her?”
“As a child, yes. Later I stopped thinking about it.”
Dante looked at Elisa.
“Yesterday, when she cried, I remembered myself. Not immediately. Only afterward.”
His honesty was uncomfortable.
“You don’t need to tell me this.”
“I need you to know I’m addressing it.”
“Not as bargaining currency.”
“No.”
The children decided to play doctor.
Tomás was the patient.
Elisa was the doctor.
Cecília held a box of bandages.
Dante was summoned as the nurse.
“He’s very sick,” Elisa announced.
“What is wrong?”
“Broken belly.”
“That sounds serious.”
“Gotta cut it.”
Dante went pale.
“Perhaps we can try medicine first.”
“No. Cut.”
She picked up a plastic knife.
Tomás lay happily on the rug.
“You can cut.”
“I don’t think that’s safe,” Dante said.
“It’s pretend.”
“Right.”
Elisa made an imaginary incision.
Cecília placed bandages all over her brother’s stomach.
Tomás stood.
“I’m alive.”
“The operation was a success,” Dante said.
The word operation changed the atmosphere.
He looked at Tomás’s shirt.
The scar was not visible, but it was there.
Dante knew.
“May I see it?” he asked me quietly.
“What?”
“The scar.”
I considered the question.
Tomás was not ashamed of it. Sometimes he showed it to anyone and said it was a “doctor line.”
“Ask him.”
Dante sat on the floor.
“Tomás, do you have a scar?”
“I do.”
“May I see it?”
The boy immediately lifted his shirt.
A thin line ran down the center of his chest.
Dante lost all color.
He did not touch it.
He only stared.
Tomás pointed.
“Doctor cut.”
“I know.”
“I was a baby.”
“Very small.”
“Mommy cried.”
I looked at my son.
“Who told you that?”
“Mrs. Lurdes.”
Dante raised his eyes toward me.
There was such profound pain in them that I had to look away.
Tomás let his shirt fall.
“Doesn’t hurt now.”
“I’m glad.”
“You got line?”
Dante showed him the scar by his eyebrow.
“I have this one.”
Tomás touched it.
“Small.”
“Yours is larger.”
“I won.”
“Won what?”
“The surgery.”
Dante swallowed.
“You did.”
Cecília approached.
“Daddy Dante is crying.”
He wiped his face.
One tear had escaped.
“I’m all right.”
“Men cry,” Elisa declared.
“They do.”
“Mommy too.”
“I know.”
I looked at him.
Dante did not hide.
He did not stand.
He did not attempt to restore dignity in front of children who demanded none.
He remained seated on the floor, vulnerable, while Tomás displayed his scar like a victory.
Perhaps that was what began changing my perception.
Not his suffering.
I did not need Dante to suffer in order to prove remorse.
I needed him to have the courage to look at what he had done.
At what he had lost.
At the consequences.
And that afternoon, he looked.