39
GAbrIELA DUARTE
Five years and four months after that night at the Palazzo, I woke with a foot in my face, a plastic dinosaur under my back, and a voice whispering that the kitchen might be on fire.
I’d slept four hours. I’d spent part of the night revising a chapel budget and the rest beside Camila, whose mild cough set off old alarms. The life I’d built was happy, but happiness didn’t make raising triplets easy or erase exhaustion. I opened my eyes.
Noah stood beside the bed, far too serious for a child of four years and eleven months. A white streak cut through his dark hair at the temple, an inheritance I’d learned not to look at for too long.
“What do you mean, ‘might’?”
“Heitor made coffee.”
I shot up. The foot in my face belonged to Camila, asleep across the bed. I settled her on the pillow and ran to the kitchen. Heitor stood on a chair in a red cape, pouring cold water into a mug full of grounds. Sugar covered the floor.
“Good morning, Mommy.”
“Get down.”
“I’m making your coffee.”
“Thank you. Get down.”
“Noah said it would catch fire, but I didn’t turn on the stove.”
“It could have,” Noah explained behind me.
I lifted Heitor off the chair and surveyed the disaster. Nothing was burning. That was enough of a win for a Monday.
“Why are you up so early?”
“There’s cake at school today,” Heitor said.
“Your birthday isn’t until next month.”
“I know. It’s for the class party. You promised.”
I looked at the clock. Six twelve. The cake sat unfrosted in the fridge, I owed the chapel client a budget, and Camila had an appointment at noon in Angra dos Reis, with the S?o Paulo team joining by video.
“All right. Operation Cake. Noah, get the plates. Heitor, take off that cape before it ends up in the chocolate.”
“Superheroes don’t take off their capes.”
“Superheroes who want frosting do.”
He obeyed. Minutes later, Camila appeared in the doorway, hugging a cloth rabbit. She was smaller than her brothers, with long hair, brown eyes, and the same white streak. She leaned against my leg.
“Tired, sweetheart?”
She nodded. I picked her up. She felt too light.
Her heart condition had been discovered during the pregnancy, a malformation that required surgery soon after the triplets' premature birth. For years, her checkups had shown she was stable. In recent months, though, she’d begun getting breathless, sleeping more, and avoiding rough-and-tumble games.
“Will the doctor listen to my heart today?”
“Yes.”
“It’s very noisy.”
“He’ll listen and explain it to us.”
“Will he open it again?”
I recognized the fear behind the question.
“Only if that’s the best way to make you strong. First, he’ll look for ways that don’t need to open it.”
“My scar is pretty already.”
She pulled aside her pajama top and showed the thin line on her chest. Heitor called it her superhero zipper. The week before, Noah had asked Cris whether her heart could break again.
“It’s beautiful,” I agreed. “And so are you.”
She laid her head on my shoulder. I sat her on a chair beside me and finished the frosting while the boys set out the plates.
Our guesthouse occupied an old house near Paraty’s historic center.
We lived upstairs; Duarte Restaura??o operated from the back.
After two years rebuilding the firm’s client base, I’d bought the property with a down payment from my savings and a mortgage I was still paying.
We’d opened just a few guest rooms at first, renovating the rest as money came in.
Getting to that kitchen had taken much more than moving countries.
I’d worked from home through the pregnancy, with frequent appointments and my mother’s help.
At twenty-eight weeks and five days, contractions took me to the hospital.
Two days later, all three were born by cesarean, at twenty-nine weeks.
Noah came first and needed help breathing. Heitor followed soon after; Camila, last, was taken to the team already familiar with her heart condition. I strained to hear something beyond the surgical drape, but could make out only the doctors' voices.
Camila’s heart defect had been identified during prenatal testing.
She had surgery while still in neonatal care.
My mother divided her time between me and the hospital; Cris came whenever he could rearrange his commitments.
I learned motherhood between three incubators, recovery from the cesarean, and the milk I pumped for them.
Cris learned to change diapers through the incubators' small openings and became our emergency contact. After the babies came home, he took turns on night duty with my mother. On the birth certificates, the father’s name was left blank.
My lawyer kept the documents and the possible routes to establishing paternity; I hadn’t given up the children’s rights, but at the time I could barely organize the next appointment.
Neighbors brought food. A former client offered a project I could develop at home, with a colleague making the site visits.
Others followed, small at first. When I managed to open the office, Cris became a minority partner and helped with the finances; the architectural work remained mine.
That morning, he arrived at seven with fruit and real coffee.
He’d gone back to Portugal several times before settling near us. He hadn’t resumed practicing in Brazil until his professional registration was in order. Now he usually stopped by before going to his office. He rang the bell with his elbow, and Heitor ran to open the door.
“Why is there sugar on the handle?”
“Wasn’t me,” Heitor said quickly.
“Yes, it was. You touched it with that hand,” Noah said.
Cris handed me a mug and kissed my forehead.
“Did you sleep?”
“A few hours.”
“You had a foot in your face,” Noah reported.
“That counts as company, not rest.”
Cris picked up Camila and discreetly checked her breathing. He wasn’t a cardiologist, but he’d followed every test since her birth.
“Ready for your appointment, princess?”
“No.”
“Good. Neither am I.”
She smiled. We dropped the boys at school with the cake. Camila would stay with us for the appointment. She gave her brothers long hugs before returning to the car.
On the way to Angra, Cris held the medical folder on his lap. I drove; Camila listened to a story through her headphones, buckled into her car seat in the back.
“The cardiologist spoke to the international team.”
“And?”
“They want to assess whether the narrowing can be treated by catheter. They’ve recommended a team in S?o Paulo with experience in cases like hers.”
“Which one?”
He hesitated.
“The Aurea Institute.”
I knew the name. The Bellandi Foundation funded hospitals, research centers, and pediatric programs in several countries.
“No.”
“Gabi.”
“There are other hospitals.”
“There are other teams. We can get a second opinion. But don’t rule this one out before an assessment.”
“I want to know the other options first.”
“We’ll ask. You don’t have to decide in the car.
“The foundation funds the institute, Gabi. That doesn’t mean Luca decides who gets treated. But we’ll check the terms, not just trust the name.”
Hearing his name still brought a physical response. I saw rain, a torn check, gray eyes rejecting his children.
“I don’t want anything from him.”
“The treatment isn’t his. It’s Camila’s.”
“Anything with the Bellandi name comes with some form of control.”
“We’ll check how it works. The medical team decides the treatment, not the funder.”
“You weren’t in that room when he offered money to make me disappear.”
“I know. I’m asking you to hear the doctors before deciding.”
I pulled into a gas station. In the mirror, I saw Camila asleep, her rabbit tucked against her coat.
I kept every letter, test, and receipt from my attempts to contact Luca.
When the children asked about their father, I said he lived far away and wasn’t part of our lives.
I never told them what he’d said that night.
“He could find out.”
“We can ask who has access to the data and refuse any publicity. I can’t promise you’ll never run into someone from the family.”
“What if there’s a photograph? What if someone recognizes the name Duarte?”
“Then we call our lawyer. You won’t face this alone.”
I thought of Camila, tired in the kitchen.
“We’ll hear the team. If I agree, I want everything explained first.”
Cris exhaled.
“I’ll be with you at the appointment.”
“And I want another opinion.”
“We’ll find one together.”
At the clinic, the cardiologist reviewed the tests and spoke with us and the S?o Paulo team by video. A section of Camila’s pulmonary artery had narrowed again after surgery. Her symptoms and the images indicated she needed another intervention.
I asked about other teams and the possibility of surgery. He gave me the results and recommended a second specialist. Before confirming enrollment in the program, I’d hear that opinion too.
The doctor showed us where the blood had trouble passing.
The S?o Paulo team would assess whether the section could be widened by catheter, using a balloon and, if necessary, a stent.
He explained that the choice depended on the measurements and the procedure’s risks. Surgery remained an alternative.
“How long do we have to decide?”
“We can arrange a second opinion in the next few days. I want the specialist assessment within the next few weeks. If she gets worse, don’t wait for the appointment. I’ll give you written instructions on the signs that require immediate care.”
“And the Institute’s team?”
“Dr. Chiara Ferraro works with the Brazilian team in the program. The institute will assess the indication for treatment and the arrangements for Camila’s care.”
The Milan team would participate by video, with care provided by the Brazilian team.
I wrote down the names and took the instructions.
We got back to Paraty in time to pick up the boys.
Noah and Heitor came out arguing over who’d had the biggest slice of cake.
Camila woke when they opened the car doors.
“Did the doctor fix her heart?” Noah asked.
“Not yet. We’re going to see another doctor.”
“A better one?” Heitor asked.
“One who does this kind of treatment. Her doctor will keep looking after her too.”
At home, I sat all three on the rug and explained that a passage carrying blood out of Camila’s heart was narrow. The doctors would see whether they could make it wider using a very thin tube.
“Will they cut her?” Heitor asked.
“They’re trying to avoid a big cut. But doctors will be ready if they need to do more.”
Camila clutched the cushion.
“Could I die?”
I took a breath before answering. I didn’t promise my children the impossible.
“The doctors will take care of you, and they’ve said we need to treat it. I know it’s scary. You can ask them anything, and I’ll be close.”
Noah asked where the boys would sleep and who would stay with Camila. Heitor wanted to know whether he could give her a piece of his own heart. I explained that wasn’t how the treatment worked. Camila leaned against Cris and asked him to bring her yellow blanket.
I wrote down the questions still needing answers. She added one: could her rabbit go in with her? I promised to ask. When the boys came closer to see the list, I noticed their gray eyes and Noah’s white streak again. I didn’t need a photograph to remember Luca.
I might meet him someday, at the institute or elsewhere. I couldn’t arrange Camila’s care as though avoiding him were the only thing that mattered.
Three days later, we saw the second specialist, who also recommended an assessment for catheter treatment.
Before confirming the visit, I spoke to the institute: clinical selection and program coverage required no photographs, interviews, or meetings with donors.
I refused image use and asked for that decision to be recorded.
The appointment was set for the following week.
My mother would come with us and stay at our accommodation to help with the boys.
I gathered Camila’s reports and arranged for the office and guesthouse to run in my absence.
As I put away the folder, I saw the name Aurea on the confirmation.
This time, I didn’t close the message. I wrote down when we needed to leave.