18
DANTE
Bento’s date of birth took up a small space on the form.
She was sitting across the table, next to Clarice.
It was Tuesday. We’d set aside the time to move forward with acknowledging paternity and establishing financial responsibilities, guided by our representatives.
Earlier conversations had narrowed down what we needed to discuss.
I’d brought the requested documents and a pen that suddenly seemed hard to hold.
“Read this part too,” my representative said.
I read it.
I didn’t want to find out later that I’d signed something someone else had assumed was best for me. Not at that table.
Cecília followed her own copy with a finger. Bento’s expenses, regular payments, matters we’d have to keep addressing as his routine changed. The amount seemed small beside everything I’d failed to take on. That comparison helped no one here.
I could do what we were arranging and answer for the rest without offering money to settle the whole story.
I signed the declaration of paternity.
The pen made a soft scratch on the paper. Cecília’s face gave me nothing to say I’d done enough. She simply checked the name, as she checked anything important to her son.
There were still steps to take before the updated documents would be ready. Our representatives explained what came next. I wrote down the deadlines I had to meet.
“About the first payment,” I began when we reached it.
Cecília looked up.
“The account details are on the next page,” she said.
“I saw it. I’ll do as we agreed.”
She nodded.
A short exchange. I had to accept that it didn’t need to become a vow.
In the end, we walked out together into the hallway. The representatives stayed behind to check the copies.
Cecília put the folder in her purse.
“Bento woke up wanting to take the airplane to school,” she said.
It took me a second to catch up with the change of subject.
“The one that crashed fastest?”
“The one he said flew best.”
I smiled.
She did too, for a moment. Then she adjusted her shoulder strap and checked the time.
I had something to ask. I’d thought about it since Saturday’s visit, when Dalva had come to the play space for something left in Cecília’s backpack.
We’d exchanged a brief greeting at the door.
I’d recognized her face and remembered the last time she’d been that close: walking her daughter out of the ceremony.
“I’d like to talk to your mother,” I said. “If she’s willing.”
Cecília went still.
“About what?”
“About what I did. I don’t want to ask her to speak to you on my behalf.”
She watched me long enough for me to want to fill the pause. I waited.
“I’ll ask her. If she wants to, she’ll give you a time.”
“Thanks.”
“And it won’t be while she’s looking after Bento.”
“Of course.”
***
Dalva met with me on Thursday at 10 a.m.
Cecília had sent the time: half an hour, before a client came for a fitting. I brought no flowers. I didn’t know what Dalva would do with flowers from the man who’d made her daughter cry in her wedding dress.
A sewing machine stood by the apartment window, a garment rack under fabric covers. On the table, a measuring tape lay beside a used cup. Dalva showed me to a chair, finished placing a pin, then sat.
“Would you like some water?”
“Yes, please.”
She returned with a glass and set it on a small cork coaster. I thanked her. My hand looked too large beside it.
“Cecília said you wanted to talk.”
“I wanted to apologize, Dona Dalva.”
Dalva rested her arms on the table.
“For what?”
I looked at her.
I’d rehearsed the apology on the way. Her question hadn’t been part of the rehearsal.
“For humiliating your daughter. For hearing that she was pregnant and saying the child wasn’t mine. For leaving all of you to deal with what came after.”
Dalva’s face tensed when I mentioned the pregnancy. She looked down at her hand and then looked up again.
“I remember you saying that.”
“So do I.”
“I hope you do.”
A television played in another apartment. Someone on the street honked twice. I’d expected harsh words. I hadn’t expected the weight of sitting in a kitchen where life had gone on while I avoided thinking about it.
“I didn’t come to ask you to forget,” I said.
Dalva leaned back in her chair.
“What do you think I’m going to do with this apology, Dante?”
It took me a while to answer.
“I don’t know.”
She studied me.
“All right. I understand that answer.”
I took a sip of water to ease my throat.
“I’m trying to be there for Bento.”
“I know. He told me about the planes.”
Hearing her mention our game reached somewhere I hadn’t expected.
“We couldn’t get any of them to fly right.”
“He’s four. His idea of right isn’t always ours.”
Dalva almost smiled. The expression vanished before it was fully formed.
“My daughter knows how to care for her son. If she’s letting you into his life, she’s thinking of him. I won’t use that to push her toward anything else.”
“I’m not going to ask.”
“Good.”
She pulled the measuring tape away from the edge—a small, habitual gesture.
“And don’t make promises in front of him because they sound good in the moment. Children remember.”
I nodded.
I’d had lunch with my mother on Monday. Leda had brought up an empty room in her apartment, toys she could buy. I’d explained that no visit had been arranged. She’d felt hurt, and I’d spent part of lunch hearing how hard it was for her.
Dalva had a grandson who slept on her couch and left toy cars under her chair. She showed me none of them. She didn’t need to turn what she’d done into an argument.
“You helped so much,” I began.
She interrupted me with a wave of her hand.
“We’re not adding that up now.”
I lowered my eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve already apologized. I heard you.”
The clock behind her said ten twenty-four. Her client would be here soon. I got up before she needed to remind me.
Dalva walked me to the door. Beside the sewing machine, near the box of thread, lay a little paper airplane. One wing was larger than the other.
I stopped without meaning to.
“He brought it yesterday,” she said.
I recognized the sloppy fold.
“I made it.”
“I know.”
I looked at Dalva. Her face offered no forgiveness. Only the tiredness of a woman with a client on the way and a whole history that wouldn’t fit into half an hour.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
She opened the door.
“He’s expecting you on Saturday.”
I replied that I’d be there.
On the sidewalk, I checked for confirmation of the first payment I’d made that morning under our agreement. It had arrived. I sent the receipt through the agreed contact and put my phone away.
Then I went to work with the image of a plane my son had chosen to keep, even though it couldn’t fly.