15. #2
“By knowing that taking him out of the car seat would be more dangerous than allowing him to feel frustrated.”
“And if he keeps crying?”
“He keeps crying.”
“For how long?”
“Until he stops.”
I looked at her.
“That seems cruel.”
“To whom?”
“To him.”
“No. To us.”
I understood.
The discomfort was mine.
Tomás was safe.
Tired, angry, and incapable of waiting.
But safe.
I wanted to end the crisis because I could not tolerate hearing my son unhappy.
Not because yielding was better for him.
It was the same compulsion to fix things that had made me buy too many toys, offer money, and consider lawsuits before understanding people.
“Are you still trying to fix me?” Aurora asked.
The question returned to our earlier conversation.
“I’m trying to stop.”
“It doesn’t seem like it.”
“You ask very difficult questions.”
“I didn’t ask you to answer.”
“That is part of the problem. I’m accustomed to answering anyway.”
She looked at the rain.
“I am not a problem to be solved.”
“I know.”
“I am a person who may never love you again.”
The sentence struck me.
Not because it was new.
I thought about it every day.
But hearing it was different.
“I know.”
“And you need to accept that without treating it like failure.”
“I still can’t.”
Aurora remained silent.
“But I’m trying,” I added.
“You’re always trying something.”
“It’s better than giving up.”
“Not always.”
“Do you want me to give up?”
She did not answer.
The truck moved a few centimeters.
Then stopped again.
Tomás was still crying, but more weakly.
“Want my house,” he murmured.
“We’re almost moving,” Aurora said.
“Daddy Dante tell rain stop.”
“I can’t command the rain.”
He sniffled.
“You command everything.”
The statement was simple.
It probably came from stories he heard in town or the way Elisa interpreted my work.
“I don’t.”
“You command men in suits.”
“Some.”
“Command cars.”
“I can tell a driver where to go.”
“Command houses?”
“Not exactly.”
“Command Mommy?”
The air changed.
Aurora went still.
“No,” I answered.
Tomás seemed surprised.
“Why?”
“Because no one commands your mother.”
She looked at me.
I continued:
“Your mother makes her own decisions.”
“She command you?”
I almost smiled.
“Quite a lot.”
Aurora released a quiet sound somewhere between indignation and laughter.
“Do not put that idea in his head.”
“Is it untrue?”
“I do not command you.”
“When it comes to the children, you do.”
“Because you are still learning.”
“Exactly.”
Tomás thought.
“I command?”
“No,” we answered simultaneously.
He began crying again.
That time, Aurora laughed.
So did I.
Tomás was offended.
“Don’t laugh!”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You’re mean.”
“Perhaps,” Aurora replied.
The tantrum weakened.
He continued grumbling for several minutes but stopped pulling at the harness.
Finally, the truck completed its maneuver.
I moved forward slowly.
“It’s finished,” I said.
Tomás looked through the window.
“I commanded it.”
“Of course,” Aurora answered.
“Rain still here.”
“You commanded the truck, not the rain.”
He accepted that version.
When we turned onto the studio’s street, a motorcycle passed too close to the car.
I braked.
Aurora placed a hand against the dashboard.
Tomás shouted, more surprised than afraid.
“Everything is fine,” I said.
I watched the motorcycle disappear.
My heart beat rapidly.
“Are you all right?” I asked Aurora.
“Yes.”
“Tomás?”
“I’m good.”
I checked the mirror.
He appeared calm.
Aurora did not.
Her hands were closed in her lap.
“That was close,” she said.
“It was.”
“Did you see it?”
“At the last moment.”
“It could have…”
She did not finish.
“But it didn’t.”
“I know.”
The answer came out irritated.
“I’m not minimizing it.”
“It sounds like you are.”
“I’m trying to calm you.”
“I don’t need you to calm me.”
“All right.”
I stopped in front of the studio.
The rain had eased, but it was still strong enough to soak us within seconds.
I got out and opened Tomás’s door.
He held out his arms.
“Hold.”
I picked him up.
Aurora opened an umbrella and tried to cover all three children.
“Go,” I said. “I’ll carry him.”
“You’ll get wet.”
“We’ve arrived.”
She ran toward the door.
I followed carrying Tomás.
The boy rested his head on my shoulder.
“Rain cold.”
“It is.”
“You get sick.”
“Probably not.”
“Mommy takes care.”
Aurora heard.
She did not respond.
We entered through the back.
I set Tomás down.
He ran into the hallway, shouting that he had survived a storm.
Aurora closed the door.
I was wet only across my shoulders and hair.
“There’s a towel in the bathroom,” she said.
“I don’t need one.”
“You’ll drip on the floor.”
“Then I do.”
I found the hanging towel.
I dried my face and hair.
When I returned, Aurora was removing Tomás’s backpack.
“He should sleep,” she said.
“May I put him down?”
She hesitated.
“You may try.”
Tomás did not want to change his clothes.
He said he was not wet.
Then declared he was not tired.
He fell asleep while Aurora removed one of his socks.
“I’ll take him,” I whispered.
She allowed it.
I lifted my son.
The sensation was no longer completely new.
Even so, it never became ordinary.
Tomás settled his head against my chest.
I carried him to the bedroom.
The girls’ beds were neatly made.
His had a stuffed dinosaur near the pillow.
I laid him down.
Tomás opened his eyes.
“Daddy Dante.”
It was only a murmur.
“I’m here.”
“Don’t go.”
The words cut through me.
Aurora stood in the doorway.
I saw her from the corner of my eye.
I could not promise forever.
I could not guarantee that no emergency would take me out of town.
But I could tell the truth of that moment.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
He closed his eyes.
I sat on the floor.
Aurora remained at the door for several seconds.
Then she left.
I waited.
Tomás’s breathing deepened.
Even so, I remained a few more minutes.