17. #2
One received long lines extending from its head.
Another was much larger than the others.
Three remained small.
“Who are they?” I asked.
She pointed.
“Mommy.”
Then to the larger figure.
“Daddy Dante.”
The three smaller ones were her, Cecília, and Tomás.
All five figures stood side by side.
No distance.
Different from the first painting.
Different from the black line far from the others.
I looked at Aurora.
She had noticed too.
“Us,” Elisa explained.
Tomás approached.
“I’m this one.”
He pointed to the largest figure.
“That one is me,” I said.
“No. You have small head.”
“Then which one are you?”
He pointed to a circle with almost no legs.
“This.”
“All right.”
Cecília touched Aurora’s figure.
“Mommy has hair.”
“I made it,” Elisa answered.
“Mine too.”
“You have little.”
Cecília became offended.
“I have a lot.”
The two began arguing about the number of lines necessary to represent hair.
I studied the drawing.
Five figures.
It was merely a child’s imagination.
Not a promise.
Not forgiveness.
Not a future.
Even so, I needed to breathe before closing the planner.
“It’s beautiful,” I said.
“It’s family,” Elisa declared.
Aurora became rigid.
I did not confirm it.
I did not deny it.
“It is a drawing of the five of you,” I said.
Elisa appeared satisfied.
Aurora gave me a brief look.
Perhaps she recognized the care in my answer.
Perhaps not.
I stored the notebook.
Then helped Tomás collect the final blocks.
Cecília placed the stones in the box.
Elisa continued narrating who each figure represented.
I knew I would need to leave soon.
My presence could not continue merely because I wanted to remain.
But the drawing felt heavy inside my backpack.
Not because it showed a family that already existed.
Because it showed the place a child imagined I might occupy.
And I was afraid of failing that image the way I had failed everything before.
It took time, but all three eventually fell asleep on the rug.
Elisa hugged a book.
Tomás lay on his stomach.
Cecília’s hand rested against her brother’s arm.
Aurora worked silently.
I sat near the window with my computer.
For several minutes, the room felt like a home.
Not merely a place where I was tolerated.
“You don’t need to work here,” Aurora said quietly.
“I’m not disturbing anyone.”
“Your presence takes up space.”
“I can leave.”
She looked at the children.
“That isn’t what I said.”
I closed the computer.
“What did you mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Aurora.”
She set down the brush.
“You are reorganizing your entire life.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
The question had arrived.
I had been expecting it.
“I don’t know.”
“You rented the house for six months.”
“I can renew the lease.”
“And after that?”
“I remain here.”
“You cannot manage the Ferraz Group from Santa Brígida forever.”
“I can divide my time.”
“Divide.”
The word came out bitterly.
“I didn’t mean…”
“You meant exactly that. Some days here. Others in S?o Paulo. Trips. Meetings.”
“People work and have children.”
“People build routines.”
“So will I.”
“How?”
“I can concentrate in-person meetings into two days a week.”
“Then you stay here for five?”
“Yes.”
“And when there is a crisis?”
“I handle it from here.”
“And if you cannot?”
“I travel and return.”
Aurora crossed her arms.
“You still think about presence as a schedule.”
“How should I think?”
“I don’t know.”
“I need to plan.”
“Children become sick without consulting your schedule.”
“Then I reschedule.”
“Companies have crises too.”
“I will choose my children.”
She laughed without humor.
“Easy to say now.”
“Why do you think I won’t?”
“Because you always chose control.”
“I am here.”
“For two weeks.”
“It is a beginning.”
“Exactly. A beginning does not prove the ending.”
Her voice woke Cecília.
The girl shifted.
We both lowered our voices.
“What do you want from me?” I asked.
“Not to ask for trust before earning it.”
“I’m not asking.”
“You ask constantly.”
“When?”
“Every time you ask if you can stay. Every time you say you won’t leave. Every time you look at me, waiting for me to acknowledge your effort.”
The truth was uncomfortable.
“Perhaps I do wait.”
“Then stop.”
“It is difficult not to know whether something is working.”
“This is not something you solve with strategy.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying you know.”
“Because I’m trying to learn.”
“And I’m tired of being the lesson.”
Silence settled between us.
This was not only about the children.
It was about her.
I used Aurora as a measure.
I watched her eyes.
Measured every concession.
Waited for her to confirm I was better.
Once again, that placed the burden of my transformation on her.
“You’re right,” I said.
Aurora seemed surprised.
“I shouldn’t require you to monitor my progress.”
“I’m not monitoring it.”
“You are. Because you have to protect the three of them.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t need to care for my remorse.”
She looked away.
“Exactly.”
“I’ll stop.”
“It won’t be simple.”
“No.”
“You always want an answer.”
“I know.”
“Dante.”
“I’m sorry.”
She almost smiled.
“That too.”
“Right.”
I closed the computer.
“I’m going home.”
“The children are still sleeping.”
“Better to leave without creating an expectation.”
I stood.
Cecília opened her eyes.
“You leaving?”
I stopped.
“I’m going to work at my house.”
“Come back?”
I looked at Aurora.
She did not interfere.
“Monday, after school.”
“A lot.”
“A lot of what?”
“Far.”
She still did not fully understand the days of the week.
For Cecília, Monday might be an impossible distance.
“You’ll sleep three times,” I explained. “Then you’ll see me.”
She counted on the wrong fingers.
“One, two, five.”
“Almost.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No.”
Her eyes filled.
My chest tightened.
I wanted to say I would come the next day.
Aurora watched me.
Not as a test.
As a mother.
“May I call tomorrow?” I asked.
She thought.
“Yes.”
Cecília relaxed.
“Video?”
“If your mother allows.”
“I do.”
The small concession meant more than it should have.
“Then I’ll call.”
Elisa woke at the sound of our voices.
“You leaving?”
“I am.”
“Stay until I wake up.”
“You’re already awake.”
“Then stay more.”
Tomás shifted too.
Within seconds, all three were alert.
My departure became an event.
“Monday,” Aurora repeated.
Elisa protested.
Tomás clung to my leg.
Cecília held my hand.
I could stay.
I wanted to.
But Aurora was right.
We needed routine.
Not impulses.
I crouched.
“I’ll come back after three nights.”
“Three is a lot,” Elisa said.
“It will pass quickly.”
“Promise?”
The word struck me.
Do not promise.
“It is arranged with your mother.”
“But promise?”
I looked at Aurora.
She did not rescue me.
“I intend to return,” I said.
Elisa frowned.
“What’s intend?”
“It means I’ll do everything I can to be here.”
“Then promise.”
“It means almost that.”
She did not appear satisfied.
“You talk difficult.”
“I’ll try to speak better.”
I embraced Elisa.
Tomás.
When I opened my arms to Cecília, I stopped.
She came on her own.
She rested her face against my shoulder.
It was the first time.
My entire body became still.
Cecília hugged me for only a few seconds.
Then whispered:
“Don’t forget.”
I closed my eyes.
“I won’t forget.”
It was not a promise of absolute presence.
It was something I could guarantee.
I would never forget again.
I left.
The following day, I called by video at six in the evening.
Elisa showed me a drawing.
Tomás brought his face so close to the camera that I saw only his nose.
Cecília hid at first.
Then appeared.
“Slept one,” she informed me.
“One more left.”
Aurora corrected from the background:
“Two left. Today doesn’t count yet.”
Cecília became outraged.
“Counts too.”
“Then two are left either way.”
“A lot.”
“It will pass quickly,” I said.
She brought the telephone closer to her face.
“You in your bad house?”
I looked around.
The empty room.
No toys.
No voices.
No one.
“I am.”
“Got car?”
“No.”
“Buy.”
Aurora appeared behind her.
“Do not encourage him.”
“I’m not buying anything,” I replied.
“Yet.”
The call lasted eleven minutes.
Then Aurora said it was time for baths.
“Bye, Daddy Dante,” Elisa said.
Tomás repeated it.
Cecília remained silent.
As the screen was about to go dark, she whispered:
“Bye, Daddy.”
The call ended.
I remained seated on the empty sofa.
The word continued to echo.
Daddy.
Not biologically.
Not as an imposed title.
She had chosen it.
For a moment, the joy was so intense it hurt.
Then came fear.
Because I finally had something to lose.
And I knew exactly what it meant to be the man who left.