43.
OLíVIA SAMPAIO
Our tenth anniversary of the civil marriage happens in Rome.
Not my choice.
I also don’t complain much.
Leonardo rented a small villa outside the city.
Small by his standards.
There is a pool.
Gardens.
Enough bedrooms for everyone.
Manuela is fifteen.
Laura is eight.
They spend half the trip arguing with each other.
The other half conspiring against us.
“We don’t need a party,” I say.
“It isn’t a party. It’s dinner.”
“With forty people.”
“Family and friends.”
“Forty people is a party.”
“No press.”
“That does not make it smaller.”
He kisses my forehead.
“Ten years.”
“Eleven since the contract.”
“I don’t count the contract.”
“It was our legal marriage.”
“It was temporary.”
“Still counted.”
“I want to celebrate the choice.”
I don’t argue.
Maybe because I want to too.
The night is warm.
Tables sit beneath trees strung with lights.
Artur gives an embarrassing speech.
Marta tells everyone she once planned to hit Leonardo with a vase.
álvaro says he would have helped.
Manuela asks for the microphone.
“When I was five, I thought adults were stupid.”
Everyone laughs.
“Now I’m fifteen, and I’m certain.”
More laughter.
“My parents got married because they needed to protect hospital shares, because apparently rich people invent very weird rules.”
Leonardo mutters, “She did not need to share that.”
“She did,” I say.
“But they stayed together because they learned something important.”
Manuela looks at us.
“Families are not people who never break things. They are people who repair them without pretending nothing broke.”
My eyes fill.
Laura takes the microphone.
“I wrote a speech too.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
She unfolds a piece of paper.
“Mom and Dad kiss a lot. Sometimes it’s gross. But they give good presents and let us stay up late on trips. Happy anniversary.”
Everyone applauds.
Leonardo raises his glass.
“Profound.”
After dinner, we dance.
The song is the one that was supposed to play at our first wedding.
He chose it.
“Are you sure?”
“I wanted another memory.”
I hold his hand.
“We don’t need to erase the old one.”
“I’m not erasing it.”
We dance.
Our daughters watch.
Friends talk nearby.
The night moves around us.
“I would do everything differently,” Leonardo says.
“I know.”
“But if I went back, maybe we wouldn’t have Laura.”
“Don’t try to find justification.”
“I’m not. Just thinking.”
“What happened was terrible.”
“Yes.”
“And the life we built afterward is beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“Both can be true.”
He kisses my forehead.
“Are you happy?”
The old question.
“Very.”
“Still afraid?”
“Less.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
The answer took years.
Every one of them was worth it.
Leonardo closes his eyes.
When he opens them, he’s crying.
“Allergies,” I say.
“Rome is terrible for them.”
I smile.
We keep dancing.