45.
DANTE FERRAZ
The new birth certificates were ready on a Wednesday.
I collected them alone.
Aurora had work.
I did not tell the children beforehand.
I wanted to bring the documents home and show them calmly.
At the registry office, I received three sheets.
Elisa Valen?a.
Cecília Valen?a.
Tomás Valen?a.
Father’s name:
Dante Ant?nio Ferraz.
Paternal grandparents:
Ant?nio Ferraz and Beatriz Monteiro Ferraz.
I looked at my father’s name.
The weight returned.
My children would inherit a grandfather they would never know and a history we would one day need to explain.
But my name was there too.
I would decide what they did with it.
Not alone.
With Aurora.
With them.
Did I fold them?
No.
I placed them inside a rigid folder.
I photographed them.
Sent the image to Aurora.
Ready.
She replied:
How do you feel?
I thought.
Officially late.
There was a pause.
And officially present.
I closed my eyes.
I saved the message.
That afternoon, the triplets were at the studio.
I gave each a simple copy.
Elisa held hers upside down.
“Where my name?”
I pointed.
“Here.”
“And Daddy?”
“Here.”
“Has D.”
“It does.”
Tomás searched.
“I want drawing.”
“There isn’t one.”
“I said boring.”
Cecília touched the line containing my name.
“This you?”
“Yes.”
“Stays here?”
“On the paper.”
“Doesn’t go away?”
The association struck me.
I knelt.
“My name remains on the paper.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to my house today and returning tomorrow.”
“But stay Daddy?”
“Always your father.”
I could promise that.
Even if the relationship ended.
Even if distance appeared.
Paternity would not be taken away.
Cecília seemed to accept it.
Elisa folded her copy.
“Don’t fold it,” I said.
Aurora looked at me.
“It’s a copy.”
“Even so.”
“Let her.”
Elisa turned it into an airplane.
My paternal name flew across the room.
Tomás wanted one.
So did Cecília.
Within seconds, the birth certificates became paper airplanes.
“This is disrespect toward official documentation,” I murmured.
Aurora laughed.
“They are three.”
“I know.”
“Were you expecting a frame?”
“Perhaps.”
“Don’t.”
“All right.”
The airplanes flew.
Tomás’s struck the vase.
Cecília’s disappeared behind the sofa.
Elisa claimed hers would reach the ceiling.
It did not.
Perhaps that was better.
The document did not need to feel solemn to them.
I was on the paper.
But I was also on the floor collecting airplanes.
At the end of the week, I received the audit’s preliminary report.
Part of the Ferraz Group would survive.
Another part would not.
Three subsidiaries had been used in the art scheme.
They would need to be closed.
Two hotels were connected to fraudulent debt.
The board recommended selling them.
Pérola Campos would serve as interim president for six months.
Then there would be a new election.
I might return.
Or not.
I read the report at Aurora’s house while she worked.
“What do you want to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to return?”
“Part of me does.”
“Which part?”
“I enjoy managing. Building. Solving things.”
“Control.”
“That too.”
“And the other part?”
I looked toward the backyard.
The children played with water.
Mrs. Lurdes watched.
“I do not want to live in S?o Paulo five days a week.”
“You do not need to.”
“The board may require it.”
“Then do not return the way you were.”
“I may lose power.”
“Yes.”
The simple answer.
Aurora did not protect my ego.
“And if I’m no longer president?”
“You remain yourself.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Then you need to discover it.”
“Have you discovered yourself?”
She thought.
“Still working on it.”
“Together?”
“Do not turn everything into us.”
“All right.”
“But we may discuss it.”
“Better.”
I decided to propose a new structure.
Pérola as executive president.
I would assume responsibility for strategy and historical assets, with no direct authority over the audit or collection.
I would work part of the time in Santa Brígida.
Part in S?o Paulo.
Scheduled travel.
Family first when there was a genuine conflict.
Not perfection.
Planning.
I told Aurora.
“It sounds good,” she said.
“Is ‘sounds good’ approval?”
“It is my opinion. The decision is yours.”
“Irritating.”
“Growth.”
“And if the board rejects it?”
“You decide what matters more.”
“I want both.”
“Perhaps you cannot have both.”
Truth.
I presented it.
The board initially refused.
I negotiated.
Without threats.
Without turning my departure into sacrifice.
Pérola supported it.
So did smaller shareholders.
The investigation had made concentrated authority in the Ferraz family unattractive.
My reduction in authority, once viewed as weakness, became a condition for stability.
I accepted it.
I would no longer be the man who commanded everything.
The sensation was frightening.
Also liberating.
On the day before the birthday, I spent the morning in Aurora’s backyard helping set up the party.
The staff consisted of thirteen people.
She counted.
“You attempted to bring fifteen.”
“Two are security.”
“They count.”
“They are not working at the party.”
“They are here because of it.”
“Then fifteen.”
“Dante.”
“All right. Thirteen.”
The decorations were exactly the chaos we imagined.
A princess in a space cape.
Dinosaurs wearing crowns.
Moons hanging from trees.
Three small tables.
Individual cakes.
Elisa chose pink.
Tomás green.
Cecília dark blue with stars.
I wanted a larger cake for the guests.
Aurora allowed it.
A victory.
“Presents,” she said.
“They are stored.”
“What did you buy?”
“Three bicycles.”
She closed her eyes.
“Dante.”
“With helmets.”
“We discussed it.”
“You said not yet.”
“That does not mean buy them.”
“The birthday arrived.”
“They do not know how to ride.”
“Exactly.”
“All three at once?”
“I’ll teach them.”
“Alone?”
“We will.”
“You do not know how to ride with a child.”
“I know how to ride a bicycle.”
“It is not the same.”
“I read about it.”
Aurora went still.
“Of course you did.”
“Balance bikes. Age appropriate. Low. They learn balance.”
“Colors?”
“Elisa yellow, Cecília blue, Tomás green.”
“Not pink?”
“She said blue was her color ‘today,’ but later chose yellow for the bedroom. I asked without revealing anything.”
Aurora attempted to remain irritated.
Failed.
“Where did you ask?”
“I showed photographs of ‘other children’s bicycles.’”
“Manipulator.”
“Research.”
“And helmets?”
“Matching.”
“Protective gear?”
“Yes.”
“They do not ride in the street.”
“Backyard and closed square.”
“With adults.”
“Always.”
She breathed.
“You may give them.”
My chest expanded.
“Thank you.”
“Do not make it an event.”
“Only bows.”
“Small.”
“Medium.”
“Dante.”
“Small.”
On the day of the party, the children woke before six.
Cecília asked whether she was already four.
“Not yet,” Aurora answered.
“When?”
“You were born at seven eleven.”
“And me?” Elisa asked.
“Seven oh-seven.”
“I am already.”
It was seven oh-eight.
“You are,” Aurora confirmed.
Elisa raised her arms.
“I am four!”
Tomás became furious.
“Me too!”
“You were born at seven fourteen.”
“Don’t want.”
“Six minutes remain.”
“A lot.”
He began crying.
Mrs. Lurdes brought a candle.
“Let’s count.”
Tomás did not understand seconds.
Even so, everyone waited.
At seven eleven, Cecília received congratulations.
At seven fourteen, Tomás finally accepted being four.
“Now I’m big.”
“Still small,” Elisa said.
“I’m man.”
“You’re four.”
“Four man.”
The party began at three.
Children from school arrived.
The press did not.
Security kept its distance.
I participated in everything.
Served food.
Cleaned juice.
Searched for Cecília when the noise increased.
She was behind the living-room curtain.
“Would you like to stay here?”
“Too much sound.”
“I can close the door.”
“Mommy?”
“In the backyard.”
“You stay?”
“I stay.”
We sat.
Cecília held the cloth.
“Party is good and bad.”
“I agree.”
“I like cake.”
“So do I.”
“Don’t like shouting.”
“We can return when it becomes quieter.”
“Daddy.”
“Yes?”
“I like you a lot now.”
My heart stopped.
“How much?”
She opened her arms as far as possible.
“This much.”
I swallowed.
“I like you very much too.”
Now I could say it.
I knew her.
Loved her.
Cecília climbed into my lap.
We stayed until she was ready.
When we returned, Elisa was opening presents.
Aurora attempted to organize the process.
Impossible.
Tomás tore wrapping from presents that were not his.
Then came the bicycles.
All three became silent.
A miracle.
Elisa touched the yellow one.
“Mine?”
She looked at Aurora before me.
Correct.
“It is,” Aurora confirmed.
Tomás screamed.
Cecília embraced the blue one.
Helmets.
Protective equipment.
Demonstrations.
Within ten minutes, Elisa wanted to race.
Tomás fell without injury and blamed the bicycle.
Cecília refused to sit.
“Later,” I said.
“Not now.”
“That’s all right.”
No pressure.
The party ended at dusk.
Exhausted children.
Destroyed house.
Mrs. Lurdes took leftovers.
Miguel took a box of sweets and denied it.
Marta helped clean.
Aurora sat on the step.
I sat beside her.
The triplets slept piled together on the sofa, still wearing party clothes.
“Four years,” she said.
“I missed three birthdays.”
“Yes.”
The truth.
“You do not need to say it today.”
“It needs to exist.”
“It does.”
“What were they like?”
Aurora looked at them.
“The first was small. They did not understand. Mrs. Lurdes made a cake. Tomás still had frequent medical appointments.”
“The second?”
“It rained. Elisa had a fever. Cecília cried during the song.”
“The third?”
“Better. They were in school. They had three small cakes for the first time.”
“I should…”
I stopped.
“No,” Aurora said.
“What?”
“Do not turn it into guilt now.”
“All right.”
“You missed them.”
“Yes.”
“They did not.”
The old correction.
I smiled.
“You remember.”
“Everything.”
Silence.
“Thank you for allowing today.”
“They are your children’s birthdays.”
“Even so.”
Aurora rested her head on my shoulder.
Healed.
The scar remained.
“They were happy,” she said.
“Very.”
“So was I.”
“So was I.”
After several minutes, Elisa opened her eyes.
“Daddy.”
“Yes?”
“You sleep here today?”
I looked at Aurora.
She did not answer immediately.
“You may,” she decided.
My heart beat.
“Sofa?”
“Bed.”
Elisa smiled.
“You kiss.”
Aurora closed her eyes.
“Go back to sleep.”
“I knew.”
She passed out again.
I looked at Aurora.
“Bed?”
“The children will probably sleep until morning.”
“Probably is dangerous.”
“Very.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
That night, after placing all three in bed, I entered Aurora’s room.
Not as a visitor.
Not as a father helping.
As a man chosen.
We made love slowly.
Without urgency.
Afterward, she rested on my chest.
“It was a good birthday,” she said.
“The best.”
“Tomorrow you return to your house.”
“I know.”
“Don’t make that face.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.”
Aurora kissed my chest.
“A little is good.”
I smiled.
At four years old, my children had my name on paper.
Bicycles in the backyard.
A mother who smiled.
And a father who had finally been present for their birthday.
It did not recover the previous ones.
But it created the first they would remember.
And I was in it.