EPILOGUE
DANTE FERRAZ
THREE YEARS LATER
The first thing I thought when Aurora handed me a white box was:
Not again.
The second:
How many?
We were inside the Valen?a Museum after closing.
The exhibition celebrating the third anniversary of the reopening had ended an hour earlier.
Elisa, Cecília, and Tomás were six years and seven months old. They ran through the main hall with Luna, although dogs were not supposed to enter the museum. Aurora had allowed it after closing.
A director’s privilege.
I waited near the former inventory room when she appeared carrying the box.
White.
Ribbon.
My heart stopped.
“What is that?”
Aurora smiled.
“Open it.”
“Where are the children?”
“Distracted.”
In the background, Elisa shouted that Tomás had cheated.
Cecília attempted to mediate.
They would not remain distracted for long.
I took the box.
My hands began trembling.
“Aurora.”
“Open it.”
I removed the ribbon.
Inside was a pair of tiny shoes.
New.
An ultrasound image.
A note.
Our next greatest asset is on the way.
I sat.
My legs failed.
“You’re pregnant.”
“I am.”
I looked at the ultrasound.
One image.
One shape.
My heart raced.
“How many?”
Aurora began laughing.
“One.”
“Are you certain?”
“The doctor searched thoroughly because he knew our history.”
“One.”
“One.”
“Only one?”
“Dante.”
“I’m sorry.”
I stood.
Held her face.
“Are you all right?”
“I am.”
“How many weeks?”
“Ten.”
“Ten?”
“I wanted to wait for the scan.”
“How long have you known?”
“Three weeks.”
“You hid it.”
The old fear attempted to emerge.
Aurora noticed.
“Not because I distrusted you. I wanted confirmation that everything was all right before telling you and the children.”
I breathed.
The distinction.
“I wish you had told me sooner.”
“I know.”
“I’m happy.”
“Very?”
“Terrified.”
“So am I.”
I kissed her.
The children arrived.
Of course.
“What’s in it?” Elisa asked.
She now spoke clearly.
Read short sentences.
Wrote her entire name.
Still asked too many questions.
Tomás saw the tiny shoes.
“Baby?”
Cecília covered her mouth with both hands.
“Mommy is pregnant?”
Aurora looked at me.
“We wanted to tell you together.”
“You already did,” Elisa said.
“You saw it.”
Tomás picked up the ultrasound.
“It’s a blur.”
“That is the baby,” I said.
“Boy?”
“We do not know yet.”
“I want boy.”
“I want girl,” Elisa said.
Cecília touched her mother’s stomach.
“Is it small?”
“Very.”
“Can it hear?”
“Perhaps not yet.”
Tomás brought his face close.
“Hi, baby. I’m your older brother.”
Elisa protested.
“We’re all older.”
“I’m older boy.”
“You were born last.”
“But I’m bigger.”
The argument began.
Cecília kept her hand on Aurora’s stomach.
“Mommy, are you afraid?”
Aurora looked at her.
Our daughter understood more now.
She knew about the premature birth.
Tomás’s surgery.
The history in age-appropriate versions.
“A little.”
Cecília nodded.
“Daddy takes care.”
Aurora met my eyes.
“We take care of each other.”
The correction as always.
“We take care of each other,” I repeated.
Elisa picked up the shoes.
“Where is the old box?”
“At home,” I said.
“We can put them together.”
“We can.”
Tomás examined the ultrasound.
“Are you sure it’s one?”
“Yes,” Aurora answered.
“Could hide others.”
My heart accelerated.
“Do not say that.”
Aurora laughed.
“It is one.”
“Excellent,” I said.
“You love three,” Elisa said.
“Very much. But I remember nights without sleep.”
“You arrived later,” she said.
The sentence did not hurt as it once did.
It remained part of the history.
“I did.”
“But you stayed,” Cecília added.
“I stayed.”
Tomás placed the ultrasound back in the box.
“This baby has Daddy from belly.”
The world stopped.
Aurora covered her mouth.
I knelt in front of him.
“Yes.”
“You go appointments?”
“Every one I can.”
“And if work?”
“I organize it.”
“Don’t promise all.”
He had learned.
“I do not promise every appointment. I promise to be present, know what is happening, and never choose to stay away.”
“Concrete,” Cecília approved.
Elisa looked at Aurora.
“Will have baby wedding?”
“A baby shower.”
“I want organize.”
“No,” we answered.
She was offended.
Luna barked.
Tomás ran.
The box nearly fell.
I caught it.
Aurora embraced my arm.
“Happy?” she asked.
I looked at her.
Three children running through the museum.
A fourth heart on the way.
The woman I had rejected at the altar.
My wife.
My choice.
“More than I can explain.”
“Are you going to organize everything?”
“I’m already thinking about the bedroom, doctor, security…”
Aurora raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll breathe first.”
“Better.”
I placed my hand over her still-flat stomach.
“Hello,” I said.
“The baby cannot hear you.”
“I want to begin early.”
“You talk difficult.”
I smiled.
I kissed Aurora.
The children complained.
“Again,” Tomás said.
“They’re married,” Cecília explained.
“For three years,” Elisa added.
“Four,” I corrected.
“Almost.”
Aurora laughed.
“Come here.”
She called all three.
They approached.
We stood together in the center of the museum.
The place that once carried crime, loss, and silence was now filled with voices.
Elisa debating names.
Tomás wanting to teach the baby to ride a bicycle.
Cecília asking whether she could put moons inside the nursery.
Aurora smiling.
My hand over her stomach.
The white box open.
That time, I was there when the news arrived.
Not standing before evidence.
Not controlled by fear.
Not demanding certainty before believing.
Simply there.
Where I should be.
With my family.
And when Aurora rested her head against my chest, I understood that happily ever after had never meant the absence of scars.
It meant continuing to choose the life built around them.
Every day.
Together.