01/12 Chapter 477 I'm loving every step I take
Today was the inauguration of my apartment’s shared and outdoor spaces. Since my parents were at the beach house, I invited your dad and my sister. She was really excited, but she left work early and the event wouldn’t start until 6:30 p.m. With time to kill, she picked up Rafinha and went home instead. I didn’t mind much. I imagined it would be something simple—just a quick walk through the downstairs areas of the building, the pool, the gym, nothing more than that.
I picked you up from school, and then it was just the three of us—you, your dad, and me. But the moment we arrived, everything changed. There was complimentary valet parking. At the entrance, they handed us VIP wristbands. There were drinks, appetizers, champagne, even live music. It was a beautiful event, the kind you don’t expect. For a moment, I even felt rich. I’m not used to this kind of thing at all.
Before we even went in, the receptionist asked if I was there to pick up the keys. I was caught off guar, I hadn’t realized they were already handing them out. I told her I had no idea, and she suggested I check with someone from the staff inside the event. I did, and that’s when they explained: keys are only released once the apartment is fully paid off. Until then, it technically still belongs to the construction company.
I tried to ask gently if I could at least go up with someone from the company just to take measurements for the custom furniture. They said no. I won’t lie, it stung a little to watch some people receiving their keys while I remained on standby. But I can’t be ungrateful. Ungratefulness is one of the ugliest traits there is. If my dad can only pay the final amount in February, then so be it. We’ll wait a little longer. Rushing has never been a friend of perfection. After everything my father has done, all I can feel is gratitude.
We went on to explore the outdoor and shared areas, and everything was beautiful. The place is so large it almost feels like a shopping mall. People looked refined, elegant... I noticed expensive designer bags everywhere. The pool was stunning, truly resort-like. I found the party room a bit small, but the kids’ playroom completely stole my heart. And yours too. You didn’t want to leave.
The only sour note was your dad. He seemed moody, distant. He didn’t congratulate me, didn’t hug , nothing. That hurt more than I expected. While texting my sister, I mentioned the event, the fancy food and drinks, and she immediately got excited. She said she’d come with Rafael and Rafinha, even if it took a bit longer. When your dad overheard the call, he clearly didn’t like that I’d invited her. I got nervous, and we ended up arguing. I told him I just wanted someone there who felt genuinely happy for me—for my achievement—someone who would celebrate me, maybe even hug me. Something he hadn’t done.
It’s a very luxurious apartment. An apartment worth over R$1.7 million. I know a big part of that came from my father’s help, and without him, I would never have achieved this. But a large part of it is mine too, earned through my work, my effort, my persistence. I work hard, and I work with purpose. It’s all for moments like this. Lost in those thoughts, I went back to the garage where the food and drinks were being served and picked up a glass of champagne. I’m not much of a drinker, but it felt like the right moment to celebrate—with myself.
Still, the feeling was bittersweet. At the same time that I felt happy, empowered, independent, it hurt to see everyone else celebrating their milestones with a partner, or surrounded by a whole family. I knew it would be just you and me. Not a complete family. And that made me feel like I had failed you somehowfailed to give you that. The feeling is awful.
And yet, there’s also pride. Pride in knowing I did this without a partner. Pride in knowing my character, in knowing I am not—and will never be—a woman who depends on someone else for her worth. But there’s another side to that independence too. A lonely side. Living life without someone who truly calls you theirs. Especially when I was someone who always dreamed of getting married, who believed deeply in love, who wanted to live it fully and intensely.
Today, I think about that much less. But every now and then, in moments like this, my former self insists on showing up.
I even felt my eyes well up for a moment, but then my sister arrived and the atmosphere softened. She may have every flaw in the world, but when she’s in a good mood, she has this gift of lighting up any room she walks into—and that’s exactly what she did. I asked your dad to bring you down to the garage, and you were so, so happy to see Rafinha. Even your dad, who hadn’t loved the idea of them coming at first, ended up enjoying himself once they arrived.
Meanwhile, the champagne was starting to hit me, and I kept refilling my glass.
My sister was genuinely happy for me, and they all congratulated me. And of course, the very first thing you did was grab Rafinha by the hand and take him straight to the playroom. You two had the best time together. The outdoor playground, I thought, was much simpler than the rest of the building, but you barely noticed. You stayed in the playroom the whole time—and when it was finally time to leave, there were tears, protests, and a whole lot of crying.
03/12 Chapter 478 This is just the start
Today was parents’ meeting day at school. Classes are coming to an end, and after that there will only be a week and a half of vacation camp. The detail, of course, is that the camp is paid separately.
School is a complicated subject. Private schools are expensive to begin with, and in December and January you pay the full tuition even though there are no regular classes because it’s vacation. I understand that the school still needs to pay staff and teachers—vacation is mandatory, after all—but it still feels unfair to the parents’ wallets. Especially because most parents don’t get their own vacation time at the beginning of December, which means many end up paying for the vacation camp too.
In the end, the ones who really come out ahead are the school owners. Their costs remain practically the same, but they keep receiving the full tuition without the day-to-day work of running the school for two months. And with the vacation camp, they earn even more, since teachers usually only officially go on vacation closer to the end of the month, like in most jobs. In theory, they could extend regular classes a little longer, since teachers haven’t actually gone on vacation yet. But the camp isn’t paid as an extra to teachers, it’s just another way for the school to bring in more money. I’m not judging. It’s smart, honestly.
There weren’t many parents at the meeting today. Your father and I almost didn’t go either, because at 7 p.m. we were throwing a surprise party for Adriano in the party room of my building, and the meeting was scheduled from 6:30 to 7:30. But your dad really wanted to attend, so we left you with your grandmother—who was already helping set up the party room and went anyway. A lot of parents were absent, probably because of other commitments. Even my sister didn’t go because of the party.
The meeting ended much sooner than I expected, though, and luckily we managed to arrive back before Adriano did, just in time for the surprise.
One thing I noticed at the meeting was that almost none of the mothers there were still giving formula to their children. Most had already switched to boxed whole milk. So I finally decided it was time to stop giving you formula too and try the milk instead. And it worked. Tonight you noticed the difference right away, but you liked it. Formula is only recommended until age three anyway, so it really was time to say goodbye.
So that’s it: goodbye pacifier, goodbye bottle, and now goodbye formula. It’s official: my baby is no longer a baby. You’re a toddler now.
At Adriano’s party, we arrived a little early, and my dad showed up almost at the same time as him. So, being the creative genius that I am, I quickly improvised:
“Thank goodness you’re here, Dad. The boxes were really heavy.”
And then, turning to Igor: “I’m so glad you brought your dad too, because I can’t lift heavy things.”
Cuca had already used the excuse that he needed to stop by my place to drop off some client packages that were due that day. I added that there was more merchandise in the party room and that it was heavyand he didn’t suspect a thing. That’s the beauty of a surprise party: when the person truly has no idea. Which is rare, honestly, because someone almost always slips up. Like my father once did, when he saved an email about cream puffs in his inbox and forgot that I check his email daily to send bank receipts. So my 30th birthday was definitely not a surprise. But Adriano’s was!
When we walked into the room and everyone shouted “SURPRISE,” he was visibly emotional—which instantly made me emotional too. I can’t see anyone tearing up without absorbing it like a sponge. If someone cries, I cry too.
After the celebration, your father and I had some conversations about our relationship that left me a bit sad. Even though things are going well, it hurts when he says that nothing has changed. So much has changed, but it’s hard for him to acknowledge it. He’s stubborn that way.
Then we went out for delicious pizza, and I had champagne once again. With pizza, wine, champagne, or even Coca-Cola always feels just right.
And that’s how we ended the night in a festive mood, wrapped in celebration.
06/12 Chapter 479 This is just the start
Today I announced the store’s opening to my clients. Some said they wanted to come but worked during the week, so I decided to try a Saturday and see how it would go—whether there would be movement, whether people would actually show up. I asked my grandmother to bake a chocolate cake, and I took it to the store with me.
About five of my clients came. That made me happy, even though I had hoped for more people. A couple of friends—clients too—showed up and didn’t buy anything, and I guess it’s normal to feel a little disappointed about that. Still, by the end of the day, we had sold a little over four hundred reais, which felt like a win. Even keeping only half—since Rosely and I split everything equally—it was the best sales day we’ve had so far.
I know, though, that many people who come to “support” you don’t always come back. They show up once, do their part, and move on. The real problem with the store is its location. It’s on an avenue where cars pass constantly, but hardly any people walk by. Unlike other shopping streets, foot traffic here is almost nonexistent, so very few people come in spontaneously. Our success will only come when we build loyal customers and grow through word of mouth. Still, I believe it can happen—slowly, step by step—and maybe, someday, it could become something much bigger.
Before we closed for the day, your dad stopped by with you. You finally got to see my little space, and, of course, you ate plenty of chocolate cake.
08/12 Chapter 480 The First Broken Hearts
Lately, you’ve been having quite a few nightmares at night. You wake up crying at least twice every night. Some of the phrases I’ve heard you say in your sleep stay with me:
“Rafa, it’s mine! Give it back!”
“Grandpa, grandpa!”
“I don’t want to!”
Every now and then, though, I catch you laughing in your dreams. Just once or twice. And that somehow makes everything feel softer.
If I could take your nightmares away, I would. Without thinking twice. But nightmares are something we all have, something that only ends when we open our eyes. And sometimes, even after we wake up and fall back asleep, the dream keeps going. That part still has no explanation for me.
When you cry, I usually go to your bed. I hug you, give you kisses, fix your little body until it settles again. Sometimes I fall asleep right there with you, and when I wake up later, I quietly return to my own bed. Lately, in the mornings, you’ve been waking up and coming to sleep in my bed instead. It’s early, the daylight is already there, so I let you. And when you finally wake up for real, you lift my shirt or pajamas and kiss my scar. The sweetest thing. You are the sweetest thing.
Watching you do that always takes me back to myself.
I used to sleep in my own room, in my own bed. But sometime in the middle of the night or very early at dawn my body worked like a biological clock. I’d wake up and go sleep on the couch. Every single morning, when my parents woke up, they’d find me there. Don’t ask me why. I never knew. I just did it, and I liked it. Especially when we had that black leather couch—it was cold, and I loved it. I think I only stopped around twelve or thirteen. It happened every night, until one day it simply didn’t anymore.
And now, I need to tell you an important milestone: you gave up the bottle.
I was so happy. And it was easier than I ever imagined. I sat with you and explained that just like you stopped using a pacifier because it was for babies, the bottle was the same. I told you that Santa usually brings gifts to children, not babies—babies are too little to understand, and babies drink from bottles. I took advantage of the Christmas mood. Then I grabbed your mermaid cup—you’ve been obsessed with mermaids lately—added a straw, and voilà. You drank from it without much trouble. We repeated it over the next few days, and it worked beautifully. Goodbye bottle. Pacifier and bottle: both gone, smoothly and successfully.
With me, though, it was a very different story.
I remember suffering quite a bit. I was deeply attached to both my pacifier and my bottle. The pacifier came first, when I was younger. I only used that one specific one. One day, in Caraguatatuba, it got lost and no one could find it. Hours later, my parents actually did, but they decided to stick with the lie, since the seed had already been planted in my head. I cried for a few days, then eventually forgot. But I remember how much I suffered.
The bottle came later. I was older, maybe six, seven, eight years old. I remember it clearly. It was green, with little horses on a carousel. I loved that bottle. One day, my parents probably realized it was madness for a child my age to still have one. My dad had a pickup truck back then, and on our way somewhere he said the bottle had fallen off the truck. I don’t remember which loss hurt more. I just know both of them did.
Bottles and pacifiers are comfort for children. They make them feel safe, held, secure. In a way, they’re the first things children are asked to let go of. The first lessons in loss. The first goodbyes. Maybe, for many of them, the first broken heart.
With you, thank God, it was easy. The pacifier only became easy because of the surgery you had, but I was still afraid you’d suffer. There’s one thing I find truly hard to see—a big child with a pacifier in their mouth. I hate it. But only parents know how painful it is to take it away, to decide when the time is right. It’s complicated.
Still, I’m so proud of you, my little one.
You keep surprising me.
13/12 Chapter 481 A girl can dream
This week there was a holiday program at your preschool, and the daily fee was R$78. Your dad and I split it evenly, each of us covering one day.
Every day brought a different activity: painting, playing with modeling clay, making Christmas crafts, and even a water-play day, which I’m pretty sure was your favorite. You already love school during the regular year, but the holiday program is even better: less routine, more mess, more laughter, more play.
On Friday, you and your cousin skipped school because you went to the beach. You were supposed to leave around 2:30 p.m., but as always, my parents ran late, and you only left São Paulo at 6:30 p.m., the worst possible time, on a Friday, no less. Rush hour traffic. Endless traffic. You arrived very late.
My mom said that even so, you stayed up for quite a while and told her you were hungry. You ended up eating chicken after midnight.
That night was my first alone in a long time, and even then, I already missed you. Tomorrow, though, your dad and I will meet you there, and with a bit of luck, we’ll have three light, happy days — days filled with fun and the kind of moments that quietly turn into memories.
I hope your dad shows up in a good mood this time. I hope everyone respects each other’s limits. It would be nice if your dad could be a little more understanding of my parents’ way of being, and if my parents could be a little more understanding of him. Maybe this time, everyone will meet each other halfway.
A girl can dream, right?
14/12 Chapter 482 What We Call Nonsense
Today was complicated.
Do you remember Joaquim’s birthday party — Lucas’s son — the one we went to when I still had stitches in my belly? The one where I took you and your cousin and nearly lost my mind over Rafinha? That one.
At that party, I was surprised to see the entire extended family there, except for mine. At Joaquim’s previous birthday, only adults with children had been invited. There had been a clear logic, a kind of unspoken rule. But this time, it wasn’t just adults with kids. Everyone I know as family was there.
Everyone but us.
I tried not to dwell on it. Still, some details lingered. Lucas has four uncles. One of them is my maternal grandfather. And among all of them, he was the only one not invited.
Now, next week, my grandparents will celebrate sixty years of marriage — their diamond anniversary. The whole family is being invited, and at first my grandfather didn’t really want to invite Lucas, his wife, and their children. Not out of spite exactly, but because of that last party — the one he hadn’t been invited to.
In the end, my aunt and my grandmother convinced him to let it go. To rise above it. So they sent Lucas the invitation. From what I know, he saw the message and didn’t respond.
And up to that point, it was fine.
The problem is that a few days later, I received the invitation to the birthday party of his second child — the youngest — at the same kids buffet, celebrating his second birthday. The very next day, I asked my mom whether she had been invited. She said no, but told me she would check if my grandfather had been.
You can guess the answer.
He hadn’t.
At first, we assumed that this time the guest list would be limited to people with children, and that the uncles — his parents’ siblings — wouldn’t be invited. But they were. All of them. Once again, my grandfather was the only one left out. This, after having invited Lucas and his family just days earlier to his own celebration.
When my mother realized that he had, once again, invited every uncle while excluding her father — despite having been welcomed into our family’s celebration, something in her snapped. I had never seen her like that. Not once in my life.
She was furious. Deeply offended. Completely inconsolable. Her anger went far beyond what felt reasonable or manageable. I tried to calm her down, but there was no getting through. It was as if she had been overtaken by something, possessed by an evil spirit.
I tried to bring some common sense into the conversation, to calm her down, but it was useless. She said she was hanging up and that she was going to call my aunt Rosely — the one I opened the store with, my grandfather’s sister, who had been invited and is, frankly, quite the gossip.
About half an hour later, I received a message from my aunt.
“Ná, try to calm your mom. I’ve never seen her this nervous. She was actually shaking.”
As much as I understood her anger, I couldn’t justify that level of emotional collapse over a birthday party. I texted my mom again, still trying to soothe her, but it was pointless. She was beyond reach.
She started sending messages about Lucas, calling him names — words like “son of a bitch,” “vermin.” Words I had never, ever heard my mother use. Seeing her write those things left me stunned. I didn’t recognize her in that moment, and I think that was what shocked me the most.
Since I couldn’t calm her down, I went to bed. You were sleeping at your grandparents’ house that night, and the next morning I decided to go pick you up and talk to them in person. According to my mom, my dad was furious too, which was surprising, because he has never been the kind of person to get worked up over things like parties.
But maybe there’s some truth to what people say: when you live with someone long enough, you start to resemble them in ways you never expected — little habits, little reactions, even in moments like these.
I decided not only to go to their house to pick you up, but also to talk about everything that had happened. Once, I told your father that his moral compass felt unbalanced, that he was too quick to judge my parents instead of recognizing the many good things they have done. And now, I feel I need to say the same thing to my parents.
Their moral compass feels unbalanced too.
The level of anger they directed at one person, the desire to completely cut ties, the name-calling, the rage, felt disproportionate. Especially when I think about other situations we have lived with far more quietly. For instance, we still coexist with my uncle, a pedophile, out of consideration for my aunt. And yet, even in that case, my mother never displayed the kind of fury she showed now toward Lucas.
And we are talking about sexual abuse committed against her own daughter.
Even my other uncle, the one who is a pedophile, the one my father cut off completely, when my great-grandfather passed away and they crossed paths for the first time since I had told my dad everything… I think I’ve already told you about that episode.
At the funeral, that uncle reached out his hand to my father. My dad stared straight through him and refused to shake it. And yet, later, my father felt bad about it. Almost guilty. As if he had done something wrong.
And honestly… I get it. My father has an enormous heart. I do too, maybe that’s where I get it from. But still, he felt remorse for refusing a gesture from someone who would have justified every ounce of anger in the world.
And now we’re witnessing this level of rage toward someone else because of a birthday invitation?
It makes no sense to me. Babe… to me, it’s just.... a party.
So when I got there, I tried to say all of this to them. But emotions quickly escalated on every side, and as always, I started to cry.
I cried out of pure nervousness. especially after my mother said that I don’t care about my family. About them.
That’s when something snapped in me. I got extremely upset. And when I get that upset, I cry.
How could she say I don’t care about my family?
I’m the one who cares the most. The one who worries, who overthinks, who carries concern to excess, even my parents say that. And now I’m being told I don’t care?
I worry so much that I’ve put a tracker in their car, out of sheer fear that something might happen to them. That’s how far my anxiety goes. So hearing that accusation made me furious. Deeply, genuinely angry.
That sentence hit harder than anything else that day.
Later, my mother apologized for the awful thing she had said. I was still shaken, still upset, and still unable to understand why all of that chaos had erupted over a party. But I could see, clearly, that I wasn’t going to change the way they think, and they weren’t going to change mine either.
And yet, something stayed with me. Something I learned.
They often dismiss many of your father’s concerns as nonsense. And your father has told me, more than once, that for him those things aren’t nonsense at all, they matter. And now, the same thing was happening in reverse. Even though, to me, this whole situation felt trivial, to them it was important.
That was my moment of realization. Not everything that looks like nonsense to us is nonsense to others. Sometimes, to someone else, it simply… matters. And that should be enough.
When I told your father this whole story, he agreed with and saidt it was absurd to get so worked up over something so small, that these things are minor and irrelevant. And that’s when I said the same thing to him, reminding him that he’s been in situations others considered insignificant, but that mattered deeply to him. And that maybe he shouldn’t dismiss other people’s “problems” so quickly either. He agreed and even told me I was being very mature, joking that it wasn’t exactly in my nature.
Thank God I don’t care if I’m not invited to something. Honestly, I prefer it that way. If someone invites me, I want it to be because they genuinely want me there, not out of obligation, not out of fear that I might get offended.
Like Marcela’s wedding, for example. I knew exactly why I wasn’t invited, and I was fine with it. I knew the invitation, had it come, would have been out of courtesy, not desire. And I’d rather be absent than politely misplaced.
Anyway, we’ll wait for the next episodes of this real-life Mexican family soap opera.
I’ve decided not to judge anymore. And not to feed the subject either.
That said, my parents would be deeply hurt if I went to this party. So even though I’ve already bought the gift and would actually like to go, I won’t. Not this time. I’ll stay away to avoid further conflict.
I hate doing something I believe is wrong just to keep the peace. I really do. But this time, I’ll make an exception because they’re my parents.
17-20/12 Chapter 483 People Don't Change
You went to the beach with your grandparents, and a few days later your father and I joined you. At first, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go, because Pietra and your aunt Tayna would be there and he, like everyone else, finds the atmosphere unbearable when they’re together.
He made me promise that he would go only if I helped him not look like the villain, and that I wouldn’t automatically do everything my sister did with Rafinha. I promised. And thank goodness he went. Despite complaining about a few things, those were very, very good days at the beach.
It started with the drive there—talking, laughing, and listening to my Road Trip playlist, which, modesty aside, is the best playlist in the world.
As we were getting close, your father said something a bit insensitive, and I cried a little. It wasn’t his fault, I’m just overly sensitive, and a single harsh word is sometimes enough to break me. No matter how hard I try to change this about myself, it’s incredibly difficult to change what’s at your core.
I firmly believe in the phrase “people don’t change,” but let me explain what I mean by that. I do believe people change their tastes, habits, and routines. Someone who loves sports in their youth might lose interest as an adult. Someone who adores summer in their 20's might hate it in their 40's. These changes happen all the time, and it's normal. Even political views and religious beliefs can shift.
What I don’t believe changes is a person’s essence. Someone born with psychopathy won’t change. A cold-blooded killer won’t change. A deeply emotional, sensitive person won’t change. Someone with a strong personality won’t change. A jealous person rarely changes. DNA is powerful and unalterable. Tastes and habits evolve; personality does not.
So no matter how much I wish I could stop being emotional, sensitive, prone to tears. I can’t. It’s in my DNA. And DNA doesn’t change.
When your father saw me crying, he felt bad and tried to fix things. But it really wasn’t his fault. He had simply spoken some truths and put me in my place, which, honestly, is sometimes necessary. I tried hard not to cry, but once the tears come, it’s almost impossible to stop them. Crying hits like a tsunami. Trying to hold it back is like scooping the ocean with a bucket—ineffective and pointless. Your throat tightens, burns if you resist too long, and then the tears fall. No sound needed. That kind of crying is the worst, the most painful.
It took me a while to get back to my normal mood. I had been excited about the trip, but once I saw you, I promised myself I wouldn’t let that moment ruin my days. So I pulled myself together and acted normal, even though I was still hurt, of course.
That night, your dad suggested watching a movie. For the first time, I gently declined, telling him I wasn’t in the mood and that I was still upset. But the next morning, I woke up feeling better.
We truly enjoyed the beach. While Tayna and Pietra smoked hookah, drank, and blasted that awful funk music from a speaker, I placed my chair right in the shallow water and stayed close to you and Rafinha as you played happily in the sand.
Later, your father started taking you into the sea. Rafinha wanted to join, so I went in with him, and before I realized it, I was deep in the water. For me to enter the ocean usually takes a miracle. I don’t like it. You can’t always see what’s under your feet, crystal-clear water is rare, and I’m afraid or grossed out by the thought of something touching, pinching, biting me… or even sharks. And on top of that, the ocean is usually freezing.
But that day was so hot, so unbearably hot that the water felt refreshing, not cold at all. I stayed longer in the sea with Rafinha than your father stayed with you. We played jumping over waves in my arms. I’d say “big wave,” and he’d repeat it in the cutest voice.
Instead of being grateful, Tayna said we were crazy for going into the ocean and claimed she wouldn’t go in because she was afraid something might touch her foot.
Here’s a small curiosity about my sister:
She has always imitated me—in almost everything, even if unconsciously.
-
I’ve always had a terrible laugh. People used to mock me for it—it sounds like a duck, sometimes followed by a pig. It only comes out when I’m laughing really hard.
She never laughed like that. And then, magically, over time, she developed the same “pig” laugh.
-
She always went into the ocean, while I’ve struggled with it since childhood. Now, magically, she gives the same speech I always did.
There are many other little things I could tell you, but then this chapter would become about us and that’s not the point.
What I really want to say is that my sister misses out on many phases of her son’s life to live her life. It’s as if she’s the main character and comes first, before her child. And motherhood doesn’t work that way.
Imagine if she took the R$1,000 she spends on a VIP section at bars and clubs and used it to travel with her husband and son. Taking the little one to Disney, or even to a nearby farm hotel that he absolutely loves. Spending a weekend together as a family, something she has never done. Your father and I, even separated, continue to do that.
In three years of her son’s life, she hasn’t spent a single New Year’s Eve with him.
She prefers sitting on the sand smoking with her cousin instead of enjoying the pool or the beach with her child.
And look, I’m not a fan of the ocean either. I much prefer a pool. But there are things we do for our children. Small sacrifices. My father was the same way. He never liked swimming in the ocean, yet he went in many times with us girls. I have vivid memories of us in the sea together. He also hated amusement parks. Still, he took us to Disney and visited every park despite not liking them and despite spending a fortune on his own tickets. Those are the small sacrifices I mean.
Now, about your dad. The trip was wonderful, and we enjoyed being together. But there are moments when I find him a bit rigid, and I try to soften his perspective. E.g he always makes a disapproving face when we buy you ice cream at the beach. But that’s part of childhood, it creates memories. I remember to this day how much I loved getting ice cream at the beach.
I understand that in Europe and the U.S. there aren’t beach kiosks and vendors like we have here, and he didn’t grow up with that. But it is a beautiful memory, it stays with you. That night, we all went to an ice cream shop, and he was sulky because you’d already had ice cream earlier. So should you watch everyone else eat while you sit there doing nothing because that’s “the right thing to do”? We were on vacation. At the beach. Who knows when we’ll come back? Couldn’t he just let it go?
During those days, you had a little cold, so we thought the right thing was for you to return with us to São Paulo. I had even scheduled a pediatrician appointment for the next day. But on the day we were supposed to leave, you were so much better that my parents insisted you stay.
Junior and his family had arrived that afternoon, and you love being around Cauã—even with the age difference. You also adore Uncle Junior.
Speaking of Uncle Junior, your father, he, Marina, and I played some volleyball. It felt so good to have a moment just for us adults.
After that, we went to dinner at a burger restaurant near the condo that we really like. The burgers are great, and the prices usually are too. But this time, we immediately noticed the difference. Still, it made sense, it was the end of the year. From December to February is the most profitable season. Tourists fill every inch of the streets. If I owned a business at the beach, I’d do the same. In winter, the town is practically deserted. So it’s only fair to make more money during those three months.
Even so, it hurt our wallets because it was about R$100 per person. We also ordered a kids’ meal for you with filet mignon, which was pricey, and you barely touched the meat, eating quickly and focusing mostly on the fries. You love fries.
After dinner, we went back to the condo to decide whether you’d stay or come back with us. In the end, we decided you’d stay. It was already past 9 p.m., and I was afraid you’d sleep the entire drive and then not sleep once we arrived home around 11 or midnight. And of course, I’d be the one up all night with you—your father had a company party the next day, which was the only reason we were leaving.
So I prayed that you’d be okay, that your cough, sneezing, and congestion wouldn’t worsen. I’m putting all my faith in this weekly injection treatment—it’s been showing more improvement every day.
The drive back, though, was fun and passed quickly. I played a game with your father—one I had created years ago with my ex-boyfriend, Caique, during a New Year’s trip to Caraguatatuba when we expected a long drive. I wrote different themes—Christmas, New Year’s, the beach, something you collect—folded them into little papers, and we’d draw one at a time and share a memory tied to that theme.
Halfway through that trip, since it went faster than expected, he said he didn’t want to keep playing because he liked it so much and wanted to save the papers for the drive back.
Your father was no different—he loved it too. The game brings back memories you wouldn’t normally stop to revisit. It also lets you discover stories from the past of the person beside you, which is always fun—there are always great stories. And so we drove for almost two and a half hours, talking about moments and memories that shaped our lives.
Your father enjoyed the trip so much that he later texted me saying he’d love for the three of us to return to the beach before he goes to Barcelona. I told him the only possible dates would be Monday the 22nd—since the guest would leave that day—and we could stay until the morning of the 24th, needing to return for Christmas Eve celebrations.
Now we’re considering the idea. We’ll see what happens.
18/12 Chapter 484 Love Never Felt So Good
Today was my grandparents’ wedding anniversary.
Sixty years of marriage. Can you imagine that? Sixty years together.
My grandmother was 14 when she met my grandfather, the same age my mother was when she met my father. All I can do is hope that one day my parents get to celebrate such a beautiful milestone too. The difference is that my dad is only about two years older than my mom, while my grandfather is around eight years older than my grandmother, just like your paternal grandparents.
My grandma had been anxiously looking forward to this celebration. She really wanted the party. My grandfather, on the other hand, thought it was unnecessary. Very much a man-and-woman thing.
The party was held in the same event hall where we celebrated your second birthday. It’s a beautiful, spacious place. But since Star Kids recently took over the old buffet, I assumed the food would be much better, just like it was at your first birthday.
Even though it was a Thursday night, during the week, a lot of people showed up. The funniest part was arriving slightly late and realizing that my grandparents weren’t even there yet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before, guests arriving at a party while the ones being celebrated still haven’t arrived. People kept coming, and still no sign of them. Until, finally, the late ones showed up.
You did play a bit, but this buffet didn’t even come close to how much fun you had at your own party. At one point, you were already fed up and actually asked to go home. This place had far fewer toys than the one we chose for your third birthday and that one had all your classmates there too, which made all the difference. You had so many kids to play with.
And once again, the disappointment with the buffet was real. Even though Star Kids had taken over, the food was exactly the same. Literally the same. And once again, there was the issue with the dadinho de tapioca, which I absolutely love. This time, I didn’t even see it being served. At your first Star Kids party, it came around constantly. Even the eggplant parmesan, which was the hit of the party was missing this time. Because it’s a franchise, I assumed the menu would be the same everywhere. I was wrong.
I was wearing a beautiful outfit that night, and your dad complimented me, which genuinely surprised me. He said my dress was pretty. But it wasn’t a dress; it was a matching set. Still, I agree with him, it really is lovely.
You went wearing a gorgeous white princess dress, but you didn’t wait for the ceremony to change into the blue one. Just like at your own party, you were too excited to wait and insisted on changing as soon as possible, so we let you do it a little earlier.
Speaking of the ceremony, it was led by my father’s half-brother. Hiring a professional celebrant would have cost around two thousand reais, but since it was him, he didn’t charge anything. However, because he’s evangelical, he quoted the Bible several times. That always feels a bit uncomfortable, especially in a room full of people from different religions—my grandparents themselves aren’t evangelical. But anyway.
You said your great-grandmother looked like Cinderella because she was wearing a beautiful blue dress. And because of that, you rushed to put on your blue dress too, so you could be a little Cinderella standing next to her.
What I really wanted to say with today’s chapter is this:
it’s a beautiful date to celebrate.
Love is complicated and at the same time, incredibly beautiful.
Love is not made only of celebrations, blue dresses, and sixty-year milestones. It is made of silence, of disappointment, of mistakes that hurt deeply. It is made of days when walking away would be simpler than remaining. My grandparents’ story carries all of that. My grandfather cheated my grandma once or more and a fracture like that doesn’t disappear, it reshapes everything. Forgiveness doesn’t erase the wound; it asks you to live with its scar. And yet, she stayed. That is the contrast no fairy tale ever tells you. Love is not a straight line. It stumbles. It disappoints. It asks for forgiveness more times than pride would like to admit. Sometimes it hurts so much that it reshapes who you are. But when it endures, when it survives storms it was never meant to face, it becomes profound in a way that effortless love never could.
P.S. Lucas actually had the nerve to show up at the party—exactly what my mother had been afraid of. Thankfully, she was calmer than expected.
20/12 Chapter 485 Against the clock
During the days I was alone, I took the chance to put everything back in order and carve out a little time for myself. When you came back, you were better, but still sick, so I took you to see Dr. Walter—the doctor who prescribed your vaccine treatment. Since I was already taking you in for the injection, it made sense to turn it into a full appointment.
That day, of course, I had far too much on my plate. I needed to stop by the bazaar to buy Christmas gifts for the child I sponsored, be at the store by 3:30 so Rosely could go to her physical therapy, stop at the market to buy groceries for Bete to cook dinner, pick up cleaning supplies, go to the post office… the list went on. Our appointment was scheduled for 10:30 a.m., but I didn’t leave the office until almost 1 p.m. He takes a very long time with patients—especially when the appointment is a last-minute fit-in. By the time we left, I was already drained.
He listened to your lungs and heard a bit of mucus, which always puts everyone on alert. So he prescribed five days of a stronger antibiotic along with a mild corticosteroid. He explained that the vaccine doesn’t stop you from catching viruses or bacteria—but when you do catch something, it will be milder. He also reminded me that the treatment consists of three vials, and you had just started the second one. If you’d already shown such good improvement without even completing half the treatment, he said, the full course would be impressive. And I know it’s already made a difference.
That’s why we brought him a box of Scottish biscuits as a thank-you gift—because he was wonderful for introducing us to this treatment in the first place.
I also asked him to look at my scar, wondering if it was a keloid. He confirmed that it was. But when I asked for a formal report, he explained that even if he wrote one, it wouldn’t carry weight in court—only a dermatologist’s report would. He mentioned there was an excellent dermatologist at the clinic and suggested I make an appointment with her.
When I stopped by the front desk, they told me she only had availability that very day at 2:15 p.m.—otherwise, nothing until February. In a moment of pure impulse, I booked it. I told them I’d run out, take care of what I needed to do, and come back. And that’s exactly what I did.
Except the bazaar turned out to be pointless. I couldn’t find anything nice for the children, so I asked my mom to buy the gifts instead, since she was already going to a children’s clothing store. In the end, all I did was waste time and gasoline. And you—poor thing—stuck riding around with me in that awful heat.
By the time we got back to the clinic, you were already asleep. You woke up scared, thinking you were about to get another injection, and I had to reassure you that there would be no needles this time.
Unlike Dr. Walter, I was seen almost immediately. But to my disappointment, the doctor said the scar still wasn’t considered a keloid—just a hypertrophic scar, exactly what the previous dermatologist had said. Which meant, of course, they wouldn’t issue a report stating otherwise.
What really broke my heart, though, was hearing her say that my belly button would never fully lighten. I had convinced myself it would. She explained I’d need laser treatments and other procedures to improve it—but that a scar would remain regardless.
Honestly, I don’t know anyone who had a tummy tuck and ended up with a scar as noticeable as mine—or a belly button so marked. There are things in life I simply don’t have luck with. I really don’t. She prescribed some ointments, and that was that: R$250 spent on the appointment, and still no report.
So, overall, the day felt like a complete waste of time—except for your appointment, of course, since we at least left with the antibiotic. After that, we rushed to the market together, then straight to the pharmacy.
It was an exhausting day, and I did everything with you by my side. I felt bad that you spent so much time in the car with me, but today I had no support system. My mom wasn’t available, your dad wasn’t feeling well—he caught your flu—and I couldn’t make it to the store to switch shifts with my aunt, so she ended up closing early.
This is motherhood—the small sacrifices I talked about in earlier chapters.
Today, it was just you and me. Me and you. And I realized that what I’d spent the whole day calling a waste of time was actually something else entirely: a full day lived side by side with you. And that made it quietly, unexpectedly enriching.
21/12 Chapter 486 Oh. What. Fun.
Today we had a small Christmas gathering with my paternal grandmother’s side of the family—great-grandmother Sonia’s family. This celebration had been planned for a while. We created a WhatsApp group to confirm attendance and decided to hire a crêpe buffet this year, which came out to about R$89 per person.
I remember that when I was little, before heading to spend Christmas Eve with my mother’s family, which was always a huge celebration, full of cousins I adored—we would stop by my grandmother’s or my uncle’s house around 8 p.m.. We’d eat a few peanuts or small snacks, and that was it. For us kids, it was painfully boring. Only close to midnight did the real celebration begin, with my mother’s side of the family.
But now, with you children around, Christmas with my father’s family has become something else entirely. The atmosphere has changed. The people have changed. It’s lighter, warmer, more pleasant. This is the second year we’ve held it in Aunt Rosane’s party room. Last year was lovely—you had a visit from Santa Claus and received lots of presents. The only downside was the rain. Since it was held in the outdoor barbecue area, the space felt cramped.
This year, though, we held it inside the party room. Unlike last year, it didn’t rain but the heat was unbearable. Truly unbearable. Going outside was impossible because of the sun, so we stayed indoors with the air conditioning on the entire time.
The problem with today is that there had been a family conflict a few days earlier. And I need to explain what happened.
Everyone had confirmed their attendance. From the beginning, my aunt made it very clear: once you confirmed, you couldn’t cancel later, because the buffet would be contracted based on the exact number of people. Of course, emergencies happen but even then, the cost would still need to be covered.
A few days before the event, my sister sent a message in the group saying she wouldn’t be able to come after all. I didn’t understand it at first. Later, I asked my aunt why she wasn’t coming, and she explained that it was because they had decided to celebrate Pietra’s birthday, which wasn’t even until the last week of December.
When Tayna and Pietra get together… it’s never easy. They’re much better apart than together. But they decided, last minute, to throw this party. She canceled a commitment she had confirmed months earlier to prioritize something else and, on top of that, she didn’t want to pay for what she had already committed to.
Not to mention the fact that she clearly prefers spending the day by the pool in a bikini, blasting music, drinking, smoking, and talking about things that feel worlds away from motherhood—with people years younger than her—rather than spending Christmas celebrating with her grandmother, whose time with us is limited. Rather than watching her own child’s joy at seeing Santa Claus walk in and hand out presents.
And maybe that’s what hurt the most.
Because at some point, priorities stop being about convenience and start revealing who we are, and what we choose to value.
You know, childhood passes unbelievably fast. If we’re lucky, we get maybe eight magical Christmases with our children, at most. By the time they’re ten, they usually stop believing in Santa Claus (often much earlier), and in the first couple of years they’re still too little to fully understand what’s happening anyway. So in reality, we’re given about six to eight Christmases that truly matter. That’s it.
Don’t take that for granted. Enjoy it. Because this time will never come back.
That’s when the chaos in the group chat began. My aunt said my sister was canceling at the last minute and that it would make the buffet more expensive for everyone else. My sister felt offended and said this should have been discussed privately. She insisted she would transfer her share—hers and her husband’s—because they weren’t “starving,” and then she left the group.
And being as vindictive and resentful as my sister can be, she later announced that Rafinha wouldn’t be participating either, that he wouldn’t be seeing Santa Claus.
Deep breath. Everyone.
Giovanna, our cousin, decided to talk to her. She said Pietra’s party was on the 20th, so why on earth couldn’t she attend our gathering on the 21st? My sister explained that many guests would be sleeping over, and the next day some people might leave late or stay longer. Giovanna couldn’t understand that logic. She said it was her house and she could simply tell guests she had another commitment and needed to leave by a certain time.
Tayna didn’t accept being questioned, and that’s when things escalated. The argument turned ugly. Insults flew back and forth.
Giovanna said things like, if my father were to die, Tayna would be the first one fired from the company, which, honestly, is both harsh and probably true. My sister tried to humiliate her by saying she was in her early twenties and didn’t even own a car or a house. Giovanna shot back that she only had those things because our father gave them to her, and that without him she would never have achieved any of it, which is also true. Then my sister responded with something unforgivable, saying it wasn’t her fault that Giovanna’s father was a “poor nobody.”
That’s when the fight completely spiraled.
My sister started saying ridiculous things boasting about how rich she was, about our father owning a two-million-real beach house, about being an heiress.
Honestly, my sister talks nonsense. And I felt an overwhelming sense of shame.
I only found out about this entire argument at the Christmas gathering itself, when Giovanna and Fernando told us everything. Horrified, I went straight to my father. If there’s one thing he has always been, it’s humble. He doesn’t like showing off or humiliating anyone.
But when I told him what had happened, he said Tayna was right. That Giovanna was out of line. That she shouldn’t have confronted her. Hearing that shocked me.
It’s incredible how my parents always excuse my sister’s behavior no matter what she does or says. I truly believe everything has a limit. Everything. After that conversation, I felt drained. Disheartened. That exhaustion slowly turned into something like sleepiness. While your dad was outside playing with you and Rafinha once the temperature finally cooled a bit, I sat slumped in a chair, half-asleep, like a sack of potatoes. Even your dad asked what was wrong, said I seemed strange. And I was.
But at the end of the day, I was happy. Happy to eat crêpes. Happy that, despite everything, she allowed Rafinha to go—not because she was being generous or thinking of her child, let that be very clear, but because having a child there would have disrupted her own party with her cousin. Still, regardless of the reason, you and your cousin were happy. You received presents from Santa Claus, played endlessly, and I recorded it all to save in your home videos.
As for my sister, just to close this chapter: I don’t think Giovanna was right to confront her, even though she didn’t say anything outrageous. As a cousin, she simply questioned her. But Giovanna’s resentment toward Tayna didn’t begin with Christmas. She had been hurt for a long time.
Her ex-boyfriend, Murilo whom she dated for years and who hurt her deeply is now spending time with Tayna. Going out with her. He was even at that party. For Giovanna, knowing that her own cousin is involved with the man who broke her heart is something she simply cannot accept. She also said Tayna introduced one of her friends to Murilo, which breaks every unspoken rule of girl code. And on that, I completely agree.
If the roles were reversed, if Rafael had broken up with Tayna and Giovanna were suddenly spending time with him, introducing her friends to him Tayna would never forgive her. Never.
But people are like that. They rarely put themselves in someone else’s place. And they rarely live by the motto I try to follow:
don’t do to others what you wouldn’t want done to you.
And maybe that’s part of growing up too—learning that fairness is easy to demand, but much harder to practice.
22-23/12 Chapter 487 The road that was broken brought us together
Since we had decided to go to the beach after all, we woke up, packed the last few things, and left. I grabbed a thermal lunch bag, made sandwiches for each of us, packed toast and cream cheese, and this time I didn’t forget the water. Everything was set for a smooth, peaceful drive. And it was peaceful… except that you only fell asleep when we were already about 15 minutes away from the beach house.
It amazes me how even 15 minutes of sleep is enough for you. Truly impressive. That tiny nap is all it takes for you to feel rested and then stay up late at night. If you don’t nap, you fall asleep around 9:30 or 10. But if you sleep for even ten minutes, midnight becomes the rule. It’s incredible how your little body works.
As soon as we arrived, we played for a bit. We got there around 5 p.m., late afternoon already, and surprisingly you didn’t want to go to the beach, you wanted the pool. So it was just you and me, since your dad was finishing a meeting. I noticed the pool was more crowded than usual. That’s beach season—end and beginning of the year are always busy. The condo itself was full too, especially for a Monday. It felt like many families were staying through Christmas, which made me even more surprised that we couldn’t rent the house for the holiday.
There was a little girl named Mel, 6 years old, literally our neighbor. She and her family live in the Netherlands (they’re Brazilian) and were spending their vacation here. Unlike your name, hers isn’t a nickname, that’s her actual name. And the two of you became friends almost instantly.
While we were in the pool, she was jumping into the deep end because she knew how to swim. And then you decided you wanted to jump too. To dive. For the very first time. I showed you how to pinch your nose, and you jumped. And you loved it. So much that you wanted to do it at least twenty more times.
Then your dad arrived, and you wanted to show him your new skill. He wasn’t thrilled, he worries about your ears, and rightly so, given your history of recurring ear infections. But I explained that you’re growing up, and sooner or later you’ll want to dive, swim underwater. I told him I plan to enroll you in swimming lessons when the year turns, and in swimming you dive, you go under. I said the most I could do was get ear protection that might help. We talked calmly, no fighting. We’re communicating so much better now. You jumped a few more times, and then we distracted you with something else.
By the time we left the pool, it was already getting dark. We went straight to the shower and then had dinner together. It was special and we didn’t even need cartoons at the table. I wish for more days like that.
Later that night, we went out for ice cream and then stopped by a claw machine to try to win a stuffed animal. Your dad managed to get one for you. After that, you rested for a bit with us in bed.
Your dad and I started watching a movie together, and it felt good. We’ve had some setbacks, but we’re also getting closer again. And that… maybe that gives me a little hope for the future.
Something I’ve noticed is that as your health has improved, our relationship has too. Of course, none of this was your fault and it never should be. You must never feel guilty for anything. But the truth is that having a sick child and dealing with big problems can deeply shake a marriage. Just like financial stress and so many other things.
The next day was sunny, but we took our time before going to the beach because the heat was unbearable. Just stepping outside the air conditioning felt like being set on fire. I couldn’t even leave the house, so your dad went out to buy croissants and pain au chocolat. And my love… pain au chocolat is wonderful. I’m obsessed. This one was so generously filled that I honestly thought it was even better than the ones in Europe.
We enjoyed every bite, played for a while, and around 3:30 p.m. we finally went to the beach, where we watched the sunset and stayed until nightfall. We spent the entire afternoon having fun, but what made me especially happy was convincing your dad to have ice cream with you. I told him that this was something the two of you could enjoy together, something that would turn into memories. I still remember how happy I felt having ice cream at the beach when I was little. She will remember this too.
And so you did. He did it without complaining this time and truly enjoyed it with you. I was so, so happy. You can’t even imagine.
I understand why it’s strange for him. In Europe and in the United States there’s no beach commerce like this. No kiosks, no vendors, no ice cream sellers walking by. So to him, ice cream at the beach feels unnecessary. Still, seeing the two of you sharing that moment filled my heart.
There were many people staying at the beach into the night. I love the beach at night too—the soft breeze, a bonfire, roasting marshmallows, someone playing the guitar. It enchants me. I’ve only done a luau a couple of times, back when I was 14/15. And in San Diego, they do luau quite often too.
That night we went back home, ate, and put you to bed. The next morning we would return to São Paulo around 11 a.m. We needed to stop by the house, take care of a few things, and your dad had to get his suitcase, on the 25th he’d go straight to the airport. After all, it was Christmas Eve.
Before falling asleep, I asked your dad if I could rest for a while on his chest. He said yes. And it felt so good to feel held there again. It had been such a long time.
Who knows. I don’t want to hope too much. But things are getting better. Slowly, without rushing, with patience… maybe we’ll find our way back to each other.
24-25/12 Chapter 488 The road that was broken brought us together
Today we woke up, packed our things, and headed back. What amazed me most is that this time you didn’t fall asleep, not even once. Instead, you and your dad spent the entire drive playing. Literally 2:30 hours of nonstop games and laughter. Your dad has an incredible amount of patience and dedication. I honestly don’t have the patience to play the way you two were playing, especially not for over 2 hours, and especially not sitting uncomfortably in a car. Your dad is extraordinary in everything that has to do with you.
After stopping by my place and then your dad’s, we went straight to my parents’ house. Everyone was already there, by the pool.
After that, you and your cousin played endlessly and refused to sleep, no matter how hard we tried. So the plan became clear: Santa would come earlier, and we’d put you both to bed around midnight. Of course, we fed you first, since we adults only ended up having dinner around eleven.
This time Santa arrived outside, not in the living room, because the heat was simply unbearable. Still, it wasn’t quite the same out there, something felt different. But with so many presents, you and Rafinha didn’t care at all. You don’t really notice those details yet. And this time, your dad complained less about the mountain of toys. Naturally, there were a few small arguments here and there over who owned which toy.
Santa this year was Junior, though I worry you might recognize his voice next year. I told you that the Santas you see at home and at the mall are just helpers, that the real Santa is never seen. He’s magical and doesn’t allow himself to be recognized. At least, that’s what my parents told me, and it worked perfectly.
When it was time to put you to bed, you only wanted to sleep with your grandpa. So I asked him to take you and Rafinha upstairs so you could fall asleep, giving us time to start the games everyone was waiting for. He agreed.
When we reached his bedroom, there was a small pile of clothes on the floor. And underneath it, you could clearly see Santa’s outfit. You, sharp and observant as always, immediately asked:
“Mommy, what is Santa’s suit doing here?”
My dad and I exchanged an awkward look. Then he answered, trying to sound natural:
“No, sweetheart, that’s Santa’s bag. Since he already delivered your presents, the bag is empty now. And Santa can’t visit other children with an empty bag, so he went to get more.”
Whew.
You seemed convinced.
We’ll need to be careful with you. Otherwise, you’ll figure it out too soon—and the magic won’t last as long as it should.
After you guys slept, we went down to start the games.
This year we added a new one: the auction game Camila taught us during last New Year’s, when she spent the holiday with us. I bought around fourteen gifts, and everyone loved it. It was so much fun. Most people said it was the best game of the night. Watching everyone bid on the presents, open them, and discover ridiculous or useless items was hilarious. I think only three gifts were actually good and more expensive. As always, Débora’s family was incredibly lucky, Junior ended up with the R$100 bill I had hidden in one of the gifts. At least Pietra got the Victoria’s Secret perfume.
Speaking of Pietra, I drew her name for Secret Santa, and Aunt Andreia drew mine and gave me two beautiful dresses. My mom also gave me lovely clothes to wear after my surgery. The only disappointment was my grandpa. He drew Adriano, and Aunt Cuca said the shorts didn’t have tags so she thought they were used, even if only once. The Hering T-shirt was enormous, because it belonged to my grandfather too, and even though it still had tags, it couldn’t be exchanged because too much time had passed since he bought it.
Completely wrong. Zero awareness.
Oh, Grandpa…
Later, we played Secret Santa again, but this time with a twist. The lowest numbers turned out to be the luckiest ones. My dad ended up drawing the Adidas set I had put in, and he was genuinely happy.
After that, we wrapped up our Christmas and finally went to rest.
The next day, around 2 p.m, I drove your dad to my apartment so he could take an Uber to the airport. I could have taken him myself, of course, but since it was Christmas everyone was waiting for me for lunch and the rest of the games. Still, when I came back after dropping him off, I felt completely drained, dazed, exhausted, with no energy for anything. I went to lie down, and when I woke up, everyone had already left.
I think I was already feeling low, knowing your dad was leaving and that it would take a whole month before we’d see him again. I’m going to miss him. And he’s going to miss you terribly too.
Before he left, I tried to plan a surprise with his parents. I wanted to travel with you around the 30th, arrive on the 31st, and spend New Year’s together. His friend Marc would invite him over, your paternal grandparents would pick us up at the airport, and when he got home, the two of us would be there waiting. Just imagine his face. It would have been hilarious and incredibly sweet. He would have been so happy.
I was truly willing to do it. I was ready to get on a plane alone with a small child and face all those hours of travel, just for that moment. But neither of us can take you out of the country without the other’s authorization. To leave, we would need his formal consent, and that made a surprise impossible.
So I ended up telling him everything: what I had planned, and why it wouldn’t work. He said we could still go, even without the surprise. That he would figure out the authorization and talk to his father.
So maybe we’ll travel for about two weeks to your grandparents’ house and you might finally get to see snow. 🤍
26-31/12 Chapter 489 Tomorrow might not be here for you
The days after Christmas were intense, especially with you and Rafinha confined in the same space for so long. You love each other, but at the same time, you fight constantly. And I think I’ve said this in another chapter, but it’s worth repeating: when you play outside, with games that don’t involve toys like at the playground, in the pool, running around, playing tag, hide-and-seek, you get along beautifully. But the moment you’re indoors, surrounded by toys… all hell breaks loose.
Rafinha has been going through a difficult phase, and what worries us most right now is his anger. I know part of it likely comes from temperament, especially traits that seem to run on my sister’s side of the family, and even on my father’s but it’s never just one factor. The environment matters too. The daily dynamics, the arguments he witnesses, the emotional climate around him… I’m sure all of that deepens what he’s already struggling with.
Lately, when anyone says “no” to him, he becomes intensely upset. He clenches his fists, stiffens his body. If someone takes something from his hands, he reacts by trying to hit you. It’s a complicated situation. A mischievous child is exhausting, yes, but that’s normal. Anger like this, though, is different. It’s a warning sign. And it’s something that needs attention. You, on the other hand, are a golden child. Polite, gentle, sweet. You rarely misbehave.
But there are two things we’ve been working hard on with you.
First: you cry about everything. Everything, everything. If you lightly bump your arm on the door, you cry and say you’re hurt, even when we all know it couldn’t possibly have hurt.
There’s also a little game Rafinha likes to play where he sings, “Melanie roubou pão na casa do João.” It’s a harmless children’s rhyme where you replace the name with different people’s names—his, mine, grandma’s, grandpa’s. Everyone laughs. But when someone says your name, you don’t accept it. You cry.
Many times I’ve seen Rafinha not even touch you, just move near you and you start crying anyway. It drives us crazy.
The second issue, and the one I consider more serious, is sharing.
You struggle deeply with sharing what’s yours. Rafael, on the other hand, is naturally generous. He often offers his toys first and doesn’t seem to mind. You become intensely attached to anything that belongs to you—whether it was given to you, or something you’re playing with in the moment—and you don’t want anyone else touching it.
The problem is that at your grandparents’ house, your toys and Rafinha’s toys are all mixed together in the same toy chest. Sometimes you’re playing with toy X, and Rafinha reaches into the chest and picks up toy Y, which is yours, yes, but you weren’t even using it. It had been sitting there, forgotten. And still, you cry. You don’t want him touching it at all. That’s the part that’s hardest.
I’ve been working on this with you consistently, but it’s been difficult. When school starts again, I plan to ask the teachers to pay attention to this and tell me how it shows up there. Though, to be fair, at school you don’t really have things that are “yours” in the same way. Still, there’s toy-sharing time, so I’ll talk to them about it.
The truth is, when we’re already tired and you two are stuck in an endless loop of arguing over everything indoors, it drains anyone—mentally and physically.
And yet…
As much as you both drive us crazy sometimes, and as much as Rafinha, especially, leaves me completely overwhelmed, I notice something: one day without him, and I already miss him. It’s not the same without him.
Sometimes I can’t wait for him to go to sleep. To go back home.
But a few hours later, I miss him and want him back.
That’s aunt-love 🤍
And honestly, it’s often exactly what mothers feel too. They long for bedtime, for quiet, for a moment to themselves and then once the child is asleep, they keep checking to make sure everything is okay, wishing they’d wake up again. Especially in the newborn phase.
But lately, something has changed. Before, you two only fought when toys were involved. Now, Rafinha has learned how to push your buttons and because you cry so easily (my little drama queen), the reaction is immediate and intense. Instead of ignoring him and taking away his power, you do exactly what he hopes for: you cry. And he laughs, finds it hilarious, and keeps going.
Sometimes all it takes is a song. He sings it, notices it bothers you, sees you cry and then he repeats it again and again, enjoying the reaction. No toys needed. Just provocation and response, on an endless loop.
And while all of this has been mentally exhausting for us these days, Rafinha’s mother has been living her best life—at the beach, with friends, focused on parties, fun, drinking, smoking.
Nothing new on the horizon.
Just the contrast that hurts: some people carrying the emotional weight of raising children every day, and others pretending that weight doesn’t exist.
But in the end, she is the one missing out on her own child’s moments, choosing herself over the time she will never get back. What she doesn’t seem to realize is that childhood disappears quickly and sometimes tomorrow might not be there for her.
And it’s in the ordinary moments, the noisy ones, the exhausting ones, the ones we’re tempted to escape from, that the real memories are being made.
