48
DANTE
I knew what the answer would be, and yet I was nervous.
The little box stayed in my pocket all morning. I touched it as I left the office, as I got into the car, and before ringing Cecília’s doorbell. Each time, I had the absurd feeling that it might have disappeared between one gesture and the next.
I’d chosen a new ring.
I touched the box once more and heard footsteps on the other side of the door.
That afternoon, we were going to the new apartment to check on a furniture delivery. Bento would stay with Dalva for the time we’d arranged; he wanted to finish a paper craft he’d started with her.
This was between the two of us.
Cecília opened the door with a measuring tape hanging around her neck.
“Ready?”
I looked at her and smiled.
“Ready.”
She sensed something, but didn’t ask. She grabbed her purse, checked her keys, and came with me.
***
In the apartment, a table stood by the window, still wrapped in protective packaging. Cecília’s bookcase had arrived the day before. The crooked shelf had been straightened, and she ran her hand over the wood as if greeting an old friend in a new place.
We checked the delivery, opened boxes, and discussed where to put a lamp until the move. The apartment echoed. Our voices seemed louder than they actually were.
When we were alone, Cecília went to the kitchen. I followed her.
She placed the small ceramic piece she’d bought at the market to hold her rings on the counter. I knew it had been in her purse, but seeing it there made me chuckle softly.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing. I thought you were going to wait until after the move.”
“Some things can come early.”
She turned toward the window.
I took the box out of my pocket.
“Cecília.”
When she looked at me, her expression changed even before I opened it.
I got down on my knees.
For a moment, I felt the full weight of the first time I’d asked her to trust me. I could promise so much back then. I had no idea what it would cost her when I failed to keep those promises.
Now I didn’t want to offer words bigger than the life I was willing to build.
“I want to marry you,” I began. “I want this home with your things and mine. I want our days with Bento, the hard days too. I want to keep learning to listen before I decide I understand everything.”
Cecília brought one hand to her mouth. Her eyes were full of tears, but her gaze held mine.
“I can’t promise I’ll never make a mistake,” I said. “I can take responsibility for my choices and make sure you never have to make yourself smaller to fit into them. I want to be your husband, if you want me to be.”
I opened the box.
“Will you marry me?”
She started laughing through her tears.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes for a second.
I knew the answer. Still, hearing her say it changed the very air I breathed.
I took her hand, slipped the ring on, and stood up to hug her. Cecília cupped my face and kissed me before I could say anything else.
The echo in the house faded away as she pressed her body against mine.
We stayed there until her tears turned into a gentler laugh.
“I’m wearing a measuring tape,” she said, looking down at her own neck.
“I noticed.”
“And you still made the proposal beautiful.”
I smiled and kissed her forehead.
“You’re the person I want to marry. The tape came with you.”
She laughed, then held out her hand to look at the ring in the light streaming through the window.
I rested my face against hers for a few seconds.
***
We sat on the living room floor because the chairs were still covered.
Cecília leaned her back against me, fiddling with the ring from time to time. I ran my hand along her arm and looked at the spot where Bento would soon scatter his toys.
“September,” she said.
“For the wedding?”
She nodded.
“That gives us time to move, settle into a routine, and have a small wedding. Without spending every week getting ready for it.”
I agreed.
We talked about guests, food, and a venue that wasn’t one of the family’s hotels. Cecília wanted natural light and a table where she could sit. I wanted to see her enjoy her own wedding without having to run to the kitchen every time someone asked for a utensil.
“Joana will make the cake if she agrees,” she said. “I’ll pay her for her work and stay out of the way.”
“The second part seems like the hardest to me.”
She squeezed my fingers in protest.
We laughed.
As for the guests, Augusto wouldn’t be among them. We didn’t turn the decision into a long argument. The estrangement had reasons that still held true, and no blood tie would give him automatic access to the life we were building.
My mother would be invited. She was still slowly getting closer to Cecília and Bento, and that didn’t have to keep her from being there, as long as she respected the place she’d been offered.
Cecília agreed.
Then we fell silent, at ease on a floor too hard to sit on for long.
“Let’s go get our son,” she said at last.
I got up first and offered her my hand.
***
Bento saw the ring before he heard the news.
He took his mother’s hand, brought it close to his face, and asked if the stone was glass. Cecília laughed and explained. Then we told him we were going to get married in September, at a small party.
He thought about it.
“Will there be cake?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Mommy will make it.”
“This time, someone else will make it,” Cecília said.
Bento looked at her as if the idea called for a thorough reassessment of how the world worked.
“You’ll let someone else do it?”
Dalva started laughing behind us. So did Cecília.
“I will.”
My son accepted the answer and asked if he could choose a song. We told him we’d listen to his suggestions, without promising that any of them would actually be played during the ceremony.
He went off to look for a toy that, according to him, could sing.
Dalva hugged her daughter. Then she came over to me.
Her hug was brief but heartfelt.
“Take care of what you’re building together,” she said.
I didn’t respond with another long promise.
I nodded and thanked her.
That night, we took home a boy who wanted to know how many sleeps were left until September and a folder full of measurements we still needed to check.
I hadn’t regained the life I’d lost.
I’d been invited to build another one, with the woman who had now chosen to take my hand.
49
CECíLIA
On the morning of my wedding, Joana forbade me from entering the kitchen.
She did this over the phone, while I was still in my pajamas, and with a calmness that suggested she’d planned it.
“I won’t go in,” I replied.
“You’re asking whether I’ve finished the frosting.”
“That’s not going in.”
“It’s the first step.”
Marina, sitting on the edge of my bed, started laughing.
I closed my eyes and took a breath.
“All right. You know what you’re doing.”
“I do. And the cake will be ready at the time we agreed on. Now go take care of the bride.”
She hung up before I could come up with another question.
It was a Saturday in September 2025. I was thirty-one, had shared a home with Dante since June, and had a son who’d spent the last few days asking if the party would last longer than a movie.
The months between the move and the wedding hadn’t been one endless round of preparations.
There had been deliveries, bills, a school meeting, days when I’d left early and Dante had come home late.
There was a shelf that had gone crooked again once we put things on it, and a week when the washing machine decided it wanted to add to our expenses, too.
We had lived.
It took Bento a while to stop calling the old apartment home. Me too. We’d brought his bed, my wardrobe, one of Dante’s armchairs, and things that took a while to find a place. Now he knew where to put his shoes, and I could cross the kitchen in the dark without bumping my hip into anything.
The wedding would take place at a small venue with a garden, outside the hotel chain.
Teresa would handle the arrangements, her work paid for and the decisions made in advance.
Joana would make the cake with the team she’d arranged.
Ivo would come as a guest; he wouldn’t spend the party carrying boxes just because he knew where they went.
I had delegated everything.
All that was left was to accept that people would do the work without my hand in every detail.
***
I went to get ready at the party venue with my mom and Marina.
Dante was with Bento and would arrive before the ceremony. We didn’t need to spend the whole day apart, but I liked the idea of arriving all ready and finding him there. We’d talked about it without any superstition. It was just a little bit of anticipation I wanted to hold onto.
The dress hung waiting near the window.
It was light-colored, with simple lines, and the fabric moved as I walked. I’d chosen it because I’d recognized myself in the mirror, not because I was supposed to look like the bride I’d once been or be different from her in every detail.
Dalva ran her hand over a seam, checking it out of habit.
“It looks nice,” she said.
“You’ve already checked that part three times.”
“One time I was just looking.”
Marina laughed again. She’d decided not to film the entire party. We’d hired someone to record it, and she wanted to be in the footage too—eating, dancing, fully there.
As I got ready, I heard the two of them talking about something at Marina’s work. It had nothing to do with the wedding, and I liked being surrounded by something so ordinary.
When I put on the dress, the room fell silent for a few seconds.
I looked in the mirror.
I didn’t look like a woman who had traveled back in time.
My face had different lines. My body bore the marks of the years I’d worked, had a child, slept little, and learned to ask for help. I liked what I saw without needing to turn every mark into a lesson.
My mother came up behind me and finished fastening the dress.
“How are you?” she asked.
I paused before answering.
“Afraid of crying before it’s time.”
Dalva smiled.
“Nobody’s policing the timing.”
I laughed, and the first tear came along with it.
***
As the ceremony approached, I asked for some water.