To my daughter Melanie (May 2025)

 08/05 Chapter 398: Could it be any harder?

Once again… I’m tired. Exhausted. Emotionally drained.

You had another episode of bronchopneumonia — something serious — and we started a ten-day course of antibiotics. You only began to improve around day seven, and by the tenth and final day, you finally seemed well. You went back to school on Monday and Tuesday and were doing great.

But on Tuesday night, you slept at your dad’s. And by Wednesday morning, he messaged me saying your nose was congested again. That it had started overnight. That message shattered me. I couldn’t believe it. You had just come out of bronchopneumonia, after ten full days of antibiotics. You’d only gone to school for two days, and now you were getting sick again?

We can’t catch a break. Not me, not your dad, and definitely not you. And you suffer the most. The runny nose, the coughing, the endless discomfort — wiping your face with your sleeve, looking miserable. I noticed you were struggling to swallow, so I think your throat might be hurting too. And in the middle of it all, it’s you who feels it all the hardest.

It breaks me to see you go through this. Why can’t you be like the other kids, getting sick just once in a while? Why does every simple virus turn into something bigger, something worse? It makes me so sad. There are many things that upset me like when you're fussy, or refuse to eat, or wake up in the middle of the night asking for milk, but nothing, nothing compares to seeing your health decline.
There’s no worse feeling for a mother than watching her child constantly sick, always uncomfortable, always hurting. Everything else becomes meaningless when your well-being is at stake.

Take last night, for example. You were sleeping here at home, and out of nowhere, you started crying. It wasn’t a nightmare. I know the difference. You were just feeling unwell. You cried and cried, and I couldn’t figure out where it hurt or what was wrong… until you threw up. You were nauseous, that awful kind of sick that builds up until it spills over. Poor thing. Then came the coughing again — the whole cycle starting all over.

And now we go back to square one: nebulizers, inhalers, corticosteroids, bronchodilators, medication after medication… and just hoping, praying, it doesn’t spiral again. Hoping you won’t need another round of antibiotics because there will come a time when they won’t work anymore. And if, one day, you really need them… we already know how that ends.

At this point, two things could’ve happened. Either the antibiotic wasn’t strong enough — which I doubt, since the dosage was high and it was a combination of amoxicillin and clavulanate, taken for ten days— or you caught a new virus on top of the one you were already battling.

So now, I’m taking action. I’ve already scheduled a doctor’s appointment for Tuesday to talk about your surgery. I’ll look into the new pneumonia vaccine and check if you’re eligible. I gave you the flu shot, but maybe there’s more we can do. And if none of this helps, I might ask your former pulmonologist to consider giving you a few rounds of immunoglobulin injections again — at least to get us through this brutal autumn season, with hospitals overflowing with sick adults and children.

 09/05 Chapter 399: Don't go off wondering

This dawn, you had a fever of  38°C and kept waking up every few minutes, crying and clearly uncomfortable. I gave you Tylenol, and since you were also coughing a bit and breathing heavily, I decided I’d take you to the hospital in the morning. Actually, I texted your dad around 5 a.m., asking if he could come with us, figuring the hospital would be nearly empty at that hour. I called too, but he didn’t answer. I tried again at 7, and that’s when he finally picked up.

I explained I wanted to take you in. You weren’t doing terribly, but you were tired and had a fever, and considering you'd just finished antibiotics for the start of a pneumonia, this kind of setback wasn’t expected. I was worried the antibiotics hadn’t fully worked.

As usual, your dad started questioning whether it was really necessary. I insisted it was. Then he gave me something that felt like an ultimatum, saying he’d go, but that he wouldn’t waste his time missing work and spending the day at the hospital if I was just going to let you attend Rafinha’s party the next day. That really got to me. He had no idea how the day would unfold, and already he was making it about a party. Honestly, I’d rather he not come at all than show up with strings attached.

I was so upset I turned off my phone. But when I switched it back on in the garage, I saw a message from him saying he was already on his way, just up the street. So, we went together to the hospital. This time I took you to Sabará. Your oxygen saturation wasn’t great when we got there, so they prioritized your case. Luckily, the hospital was nearly empty and we were seen quickly.

Before I get to what the doctor said, I should mention something that happened in the car. Your dad asked if you’d had a fever. I said yes. Then he asked if I’d given you anything, and I told him I gave you Tylenol. He gave me this mocking laugh that really got under my skin. I hate when he does that. That sarcastic little scoff like he knows better. I snapped at him to cut it out, and I had no idea why he was even being rude in the first place. Then he started going on about how we should let the body fight off bacteria on its own, only giving medication if the fever is very high… That kind of talk.

When we got into the consultation room, the doctor examined you and said you seemed to be breathing heavily. He actually looked quite concerned, even though I’d seen you in much worse shape before. Nothing alarming, but he struck me as a very attentive and thorough doctor. He asked if you’d had a fever, and I said yes. He asked if I had medicated you, and I said I had. I took the opportunity to ask if I’d done the right thing, and he immediately said yes, of course.

Then your dad chimed in, asking whether fever wasn’t the body’s natural way of fighting bacteria. The doctor agreed, but your dad pressed further, questioning whether it really made sense to medicate unless the fever was very high. The doctor disagreed and said that even at 37.8°C, it’s important to medicate—he had seen patients have seizures at that temperature.

That’s when your dad gave that same mocking laugh again—for the second time in under 24 hours—scoffing, “A seizure at 37.8°C? Really?” As if the doctor had said something ridiculous. That’s what your dad does—he makes people feel stupid for sharing information, and I’ve told him this before. The doctor, rightfully, got irritated. I mean, being laughed at by someone who isn’t even a doctor… who wouldn’t?

The doctor then took a moment to explain something that really made sense. He said that when a person’s temperature rises slowly—let’s say from 36.5°C to 37.5°C to 38.6 and gradually up to 39°C—the brain has time to adjust, and seizures are unlikely. But when the temperature jumps suddenly, like from 36.5°C to 38°C in the middle of the night, the brain can’t adapt fast enough, and that abrupt spike can indeed trigger a seizure.

At that point, your father didn’t say a word. But he had already been so unnecessarily rude, I was filled with secondhand embarrassment. I even wanted to say, “Doctor, I'm sorry—his opinions don’t reflect mine.”

The doctor eventually requested a full cycle of Aerolin treatment and a chest X-ray. Once everything was done, we returned to his office, and he told us the Aerolin hadn’t made much of a difference—you were still just as tired. And the X-ray showed signs of pneumonia again. He asked to compare it with your previous scan, but I was having trouble getting the image from the other hospital.

That’s when he said it—he recommended hospitalization.

Your dad looked like he was going to have a heart attack at the very mention of it. But I stayed calm. Deep down, I knew you weren’t nearly as bad as the other times. You were still active, playing, and your breathing, while not perfect, wasn’t nearly as alarming as the doctor was making it out to be.

They moved us to the observation area, where we waited for another doctor to come speak to us about the admission. After a while, a doctor named Janaína came in.

She took one look at you and said you looked okay—your oxygen levels weren’t low, and your breathing wasn’t that bad. But since you had just finished a round of antibiotics and were still not better, there were only two stronger antibiotics left to try: Zinnat and Rocephin.

The issue was, Zinnat is very similar to the one you'd already taken—so it might not work. And Rocephin is only available intravenously, which meant admission was necessary.

Dr. Janaína told us there was technically the option of trying the oral antibiotic and treating you at home, but doctors rarely feel confident with that approach. They never know how strictly parents will follow instructions—if the doses will be given at the right times, if the treatment will be done properly. She recommended at least 48 to 72 hours in the hospital with Rocephin, and then completing the treatment at home with Zinnat.

Your dad and I were completely torn. While we tried to decide, they went ahead and drew your blood and inserted an IV line, just in case you were admitted. That, of course, turned into a whole ordeal—two nurses, me and your dad all had to hold you down. You screamed, cried, kicked... and your fear of hospitals just grew even more.

And the worst part? You were doing relatively okay before that. Breathing decently, in good spirits. But after the blood draw and the IV, everything got worse—your breathing, your mood, everything. That’s what frustrates me so much about hospitals. Sometimes, yes, procedures are necessary. But other times, they only make things worse. Even the doctor herself gave us the option of home treatment—which, if things were truly serious, a real emergency, they would never offer.

At least this time, they got the IV right on the first try—unlike during your second admission at Sabará, which was a nightmare.

Later, when the doctor came back, we were still undecided. She asked who your pediatrician was, and I said Dr. Humberto Mancini. Her face lit up—she knew him. She said she’d call him personally to discuss your case. But time passed and she didn’t come back. Eventually, we heard her tell the nurses she couldn’t get through to him. I thought it was odd—he’s always on his phone. Then it hit me: she was probably calling his office line, and it was Friday, which meant he wouldn’t be there.

So I tried his personal number, and just like I expected, he picked up right away. I explained everything and asked him to return the doctor’s call, which he did without hesitation.

A few minutes later, Dr. Humberto called me back on my phone. Your father spoke with him, and after they talked, he told me he trusted the doctor on duty. If she thought you should stay under observation for a while, he’d go along with it. So we decided you would stay at the hospital. Still, deep down, I wasn’t sure if we were making the right call.

Later that afternoon, after your first dose of IV antibiotics, a physical therapist came in to do a respiratory massage and a nasal rinse. But you hate unfamiliar faces, and you especially hate nasal rinses—you squirm, cry, panic. We had to hold your head still, and it was incredibly difficult. And to make matters worse, the therapist, clearly in a rush to get it over with, jabbed the syringe into your nose and flushed it way too fast. Everyone knows you’re supposed to do it slowly, with a steady and gentle stream. Never quickly. The way you screamed and squirmed afterward only confirmed my growing sense that maybe staying in the hospital wasn’t the best idea after all.

But the final straw came when the nurse informed us that you were being transferred to the hospital’s secondary unit just across the street. And although it’s literally right in front of the main building, patients have to be taken by ambulance—because they don’t allow you to walk there. Honestly, I think it's just a way for the hospital to squeeze more money out of families. It’s an expensive ambulance ride for a transfer that could be done on foot in two minutes.

All I could think about was the last time you were in an ambulance—how traumatizing it was, how you screamed the whole way, how your dad blamed me for everything. I knew you’d cry again, I knew you'd panic, and I couldn't put you through that again. That was it for me. I’d made up my mind. You weren’t staying. We would try the treatment at home.

I asked the nurse to call the doctor before the transfer happened. And then we waited. And waited. God knows how long it took—but finally, sometime after 6 p.m.—more than eleven hours after we arrived at 7 a.m.—the doctor came back.

She walked in and said, "Quick chat, guys. I’ve already spent too much time on this case."

I was stunned. I couldn’t believe how rude that was. From the beginning, it was clear she was a capable doctor. She knew what she was doing, that much was obvious. But she never made space for a real conversation. She never paused. She was always rushing, always cutting people off. The moment she pulled up your X-ray and I tried to say anything, she shut me down with a sharp, "Let me talk."

And every single time we had a question, she’d answer so fast it felt like she was dismissing us. I get it—there are other children in the hospital, other patients who need care. But in that moment, I didn’t care about the other children. My daughter was the one who was sick. My daughter was the one who needed help.

We pay a fortune for health insurance, and this hospital isn’t cheap either. I think that earns us the right to ask questions, to talk to the doctor without feeling rushed or brushed off. Especially when the decision we were about to make could keep you in the hospital for three or four days—days that could be pure torture for all of us—when there was another, gentler option on the table.

I was already shaken by how rude she had been—because I’m the kind of person who does get shaken by that, especially when it’s completely uncalled for. So I pretended I hadn’t heard her last comment and calmly told her I had decided to take you home.

She immediately questioned the change of heart, saying everything had already been arranged. I tried to explain—started telling her about what happened with the physical therapist and how traumatized you were going to be by the ambulance ride—but she cut me off mid-sentence. “I’m not going to argue,” she snapped, and just walked away, turning her back on us. That was the second unnecessary blow of the day, and it hurt even more. I wanted to cry right there.

I understand that we changed our minds. I understand that might have been frustrating. I’m sure doctors deal with difficult parents all the time, and it must get exhausting. But the truth is—we have serious trauma when it comes to you being hospitalized. Your last ICU stay, your two most recent hospitalizations… they left deep scars on us.

Honestly, a huge part of the reason your father and I didn’t work out was tied to your illnesses. Sure, we had other issues, but nothing tore us apart more than the constant stress, the disagreements over how to protect you, how to raise you in a “bubble,” how far to go to keep you safe. We clashed constantly, especially when you were sick.

That doctor had no idea what we’d been through—and no matter how many times she said “This won’t be the same,” or “She won’t be in the ICU,” or “She’s a different child now,”—yes, those things helped, but they didn’t erase our fear. People often have no idea what others are carrying, and they rarely show empathy.

But my world really fell apart when the nurse came in to remove your IV and told us we were officially discharged.

Confused, I asked about your prescription. Where was the antibiotic? You still had pneumonia. You still needed treatment. What were we supposed to do without medication?

That’s when your dad got angry—rightfully so. He had trusted me with the final call. He didn’t feel strongly one way or the other, and he said he’d support my intuition. He let me talk to the doctor, he stayed out of it… but now that we were leaving the hospital with nothing—no treatment plan, no meds—he was furious. And honestly? He should have been mad at the doctor, not at me.

Then the nurse explained that the doctor had marked the case as hospital discharge against medical advice—as if we had just walked out without saying a word, when in fact all we’d done was change our minds about the course of treatment. A treatment she herself had presented as an option.

But because we had initially agreed to the admission, and because she’d “wasted her time” talking to Dr. Humberto and making arrangements, I guess she saw our decision as some kind of betrayal. So she chose not to write any prescriptions. No antibiotics. Not even a pain reliever.

And that was it for me.

I broke down.

I told your dad I didn’t care what it took—I would fix this. Even if we had to take you to another hospital, start all over again, go through the entire process from scratch—I was going to get you the antibiotic you needed.

That’s when a lightbulb went off in my head—I remembered Dr. Bernardo, the one who had given you those injections with immunoglobulin. I called his assistant and practically begged her to squeeze us in that same evening. And somehow, she did. We got an appointment for 7:30 p.m., and off we went.

I could have called Dr. Humberto to explain everything and ask him to write the prescription for the antibiotic. But I felt so awkward—knowing the other doctor was a friend of his, and that we’d gone against her recommendation. I was embarrassed, hesitant, and didn’t want to put him in that position. So I chose Dr. Bernardo instead.

We left the hospital, and your dad was still unsure whether he’d come with us or not—he had to go to work. I was already in tears, and I told him he needed to make a decision quickly because we couldn’t afford to be late. He got annoyed and said he’d come. In his mind, I was the one who had chosen to discharge you, so I should be the one taking full responsibility.

I spent the entire drive to the clinic sobbing, barely able to speak. He didn’t hold my hand, didn’t try to comfort me… and I couldn’t understand why. Maybe he thought I was mad at him. But I wasn’t—I was just overwhelmed. Shaken by everything that had happened. By the doctor’s coldness. I carry the same trauma he does… we just express it differently.

It took us nearly an hour to get to Dr. Bernardo’s office. Luckily, the waiting room was empty when we arrived—we must’ve taken someone’s canceled slot, because not long after, three other families showed up.

Once inside, I explained everything that had happened, and he asked to see your X-rays.

Looking at the first one, from the earlier hospital, he said it didn’t show much—just some thickening, nothing serious. He didn’t comment much on the second X-ray but asked to examine you instead.

He did percussion therapy on your chest for a few minutes and checked your throat with a tongue depressor, which made you gag and cough up a good amount of mucus. Then he listened to your lungs and said they sounded clear for now thanks to the chest therapy—but that I’d have to repeat the treatment every two hours for 15 minutes each time. So far, I was following.

Then he prescribed eight doses of Rocephin, to be administered by injection at a pharmacy, in case it was needed. But he told me only to give them if you developed a fever again. And that’s when my heart sank a little. Because to me, that didn’t make sense.

You already had a bacterial infection. You had pneumonia. And pneumonia doesn’t go away on its own—it needs antibiotics. You’d only had one dose of Rocephin at the hospital. Maybe that had helped slightly, but it was just masking the symptoms, not treating the root of the problem. Without a full course of antibiotics, it would surely come back stronger. You needed treatment.

Still, I felt relieved knowing that I at least had the prescription. That I had options. You’d suffer a bit from the injections, yes—but probably much less than you would staying several days in the hospital.

I had been hoping he’d prescribe Zinnat, though. But that didn’t happen.

He also told us it was time to get your vaccinations back on track, especially since this time of year is the worst for respiratory illnesses. He recommended over ten doses to be administered moving forward, and the first one was scheduled to begin that very night.

We left the clinic with a bill of R$1,085, but I also left with a deep sense of relief—I could treat you at home.

We ended the night on a much lighter note: your grandparents had just returned from a trip to the beach, and they brought us dinner from McDonald’s. A burger for me and fries for you—your favorite. They were so happy to see us at home instead of at a hospital. And honestly, so was I.

 10/05 Chapter 400: It's ok not to be ok

In the middle of the night, I decided to message Dr. Humberto and explain everything. Poor guy — I ended up sending him a 12-minute voice message. But I knew he’d reply in the morning, and I still had a window of time to figure out the antibiotic situation. You had received the first dose of Rocephin at 4 p.m. at the hospital, and since it’s a once-a-day medication, I had until 4 a.m. to decide what to give you next.

Still, my heart wasn’t at peace with what Dr. Bernardo had said during the appointment — that we should only give you antibiotics if you developed a fever. But the infection, the signs of pneumonia... they were all there. You needed antibiotics.

And the fact that the medication had to be administered intravenously — and that it caused so much pain — kept echoing in my head.

As soon as I woke up, the news couldn’t have been better. Dr. Humberto had answered, kindly and clearly explaining everything. He asked for your X-ray and blood test results, which I sent right away. After reviewing them, he said the X-ray showed only a mild case, but the bloodwork was more concerning — the infection was evident, and because of that, there was no way we could go without antibiotics.

He also told me Rocephin would be hard to find in pharmacies and that it caused a lot of pain — something that could be traumatic for you. He mentioned another option, Zinnat — which has a horrible taste, but if I could manage to get you to take it, it would be the better choice.

So he sent the prescription for Zinnat — the same antibiotic the hospital doctor should have given us when we were discharged, but didn’t, probably out of spite. Thank God for Dr. Humberto. With his help, we were finally able to give you the medication. Ten more days of antibiotics ahead, and all we could do now was hope this one would work — unlike the last — and that you wouldn’t need to go back to the hospital.

Despite the relief of having the right antibiotic and Dr. Humberto’s support — which I made sure to acknowledge, even sending your health card to his assistant and insisting she charge us for the consultation — I was still feeling really low.

That day was supposed to be Rafinha’s birthday party — and we weren’t going.

At first, I had even asked Dr. Humberto if it would be okay to take you. To my surprise, he said pneumonia is actually hard to transmit, and that if we were careful — no sharing drinks, avoiding too much close contact — he didn’t see a problem.

But, of course, your father was completely against it. No surprise there. And we ended up fighting again — always for the same reason: your health.

What upsets me is that he can’t see that it’s not just a birthday party. It’s my nephew’s party. And I love him like a son. These moments matter — we never know when they might be the last. These gatherings aren’t just events. They’re memories in the making.

And while I can understand his worry and his desire to protect you, he seems completely unable to understand my side. To him, it’s just a party. To me, it’s so much more.

My mom even suggested I lie and just go to the party alone, say I was staying home. But I don’t think that’s right — he went with us to the hospital. I didn’t want to lie. So then she said I should leave you with him and go by myself...

But honestly, I didn’t have it in me. I was feeling so down, so drained. I spent the entire day like a ghost — no energy, no motivation, just completely depleted. You spent the day in front of the TV while I just lay there, feeling like a failure for not having the strength to give you anything more.

All I really wanted — truly — was for your father to acknowledge that this wasn’t just about a party. That I was hurt. That it mattered to me. Because, in the end, I probably wouldn’t have gone anyway.

You had pneumonia, the weather was awful — rainy and cold — and I was exhausted, barely functioning. If he had just been kind, generous, understanding... he would’ve won so many points with me.

Because, in the end, I wouldn’t have gone.

And so, we missed your cousin’s birthday on Friday. We missed today’s party. And on Monday, you’ll miss the little celebration at school too.

But even with all of that, we still have a lot to be grateful for:
You’re not in the hospital.
Dr. Humberto took care of you.
And hopefully, this will all be behind us soon.

 11/05 Chapter 401: Truth, bitter truth

Today was another Mother’s Day where I felt like I deserved more. Of course, that’s not your fault — you don’t even know what day it is yet, let alone how to celebrate it. But your father does.

I chose not to spend the day with my own mom or my family. Partly because of your pneumonia, of course, but also because I genuinely wanted to spend it with you and your dad. The plan was simple and sweet: watch a Disney movie together and order pizza. He said he'd come later in the afternoon and bring ingredients for us to bake a cake as a family.

But even that started off wrong. Instead of bringing things to make a cake I’d like — because, you know, it’s my day — he brought a bar of 85% dark chocolate. To make a bitter cake. Because apparently, I love bitter chocolate (sarcasm here). Sure, the idea of baking together is nice, but he never stops to think about what I might like or what would make me happy. Would it have been too much to prepare something I actually enjoy, just this once? Still, I didn’t say anything. I’m used to it by now.

What truly upset me, though, was something else. Cheila — the mom of your little friends, Noah and Sofia — who’s become a good friend of mine, went out of her way to help us yesterday. When you were in the hospital, she came to our place, fed the cats, packed my laptop and clothes, and lovingly sent everything over. Today, she told me they weren’t planning to leave the house and asked if you could play with the kids for a bit. She assured me they’d wear masks and be careful.

And honestly, I didn’t see any problem with it. Your pediatrician had said pneumonia is hard to transmit and the important thing was not to share cups or utensils. After everything you went through, I thought a little fun, a quick distraction, would do you good. This wasn’t a big party — just a short playtime with two little friends.

But your dad… well, he wasn’t thrilled. He gave me that look. You know the one. He didn’t agree with my decision, said we’d agreed to spend the day just the three of us. But the kids were only here for a little while. I didn’t think it was a big deal. Still, his mood shifted, and he stayed that way until he left.

Things only got worse when we argued about your school. He said you shouldn’t go back until after surgery, then changed his mind and said maybe after finishing the antibiotics. I said if you were feeling better as the days went by, I’d send you. And that’s when the fight started — again, about your health and what decisions to make. Couldn’t we have had that conversation another day? Maybe tomorrow or Tuesday? I wasn’t even planning on sending you Monday or Tuesday… Couldn’t he wait and see how things unfold before starting a fight?

I don’t know… This time, I just felt exhausted. I know I’ve said that before. But today, it hit different. I could finally see the truth, bitter truth: he really doesn’t care about me.

Just think about it: yesterday, after everything at the hospital, after feeling low from not being able to see my nephew, he brought you a beautiful flower basket. Which was lovely. But it never occurred to him to bring one for me too — even though the next day was Mother’s Day. It didn’t even cross his mind. His only "gift" to me was saying he’d pay for the pizza — which, by the way, he hasn’t paid for yet. And I won’t ask.

When he arrived at the apartment, before even getting annoyed about the kids, he didn’t give me a single hug for Mother’s Day. Later, when he was leaving and things had already gone south, he asked for a hug. But his hugs now… they don’t have warmth anymore. They’re lifeless. I used to love how tight and loving his hugs were. That tenderness is gone.

And lastly, the lack of consideration. Today was supposed to be special to me. Couldn’t he have saved the arguments for another day? Why sulk in my home, act distant, and still show frustration over decisions I make here — when we’re no longer together and have agreed to live separately? If we were still making every decision as a couple, we wouldn’t be separated in the first place.

In the end, nothing went as planned. We didn’t watch the movie — you didn’t feel like it. The evening didn’t feel special. The pizza wasn’t fun like I imagined it would be, the three of us enjoying it together. And there wasn’t even dessert… Actually there was: a bitter cake your dad made. Fitting for a bitter day.

 14/05 Chapter 402: Why should I care?

Before that terrible Mother’s Day I had, your dad and I had planned to take you to the beach the week after Rafinha’s birthday. But even before you got sick, the weather forecast had already made us postpone it — and rightly so, because it really did get bad. So, we rescheduled for the following weekend. But after Mother’s Day, no words needed to be said. He knew. He knew we weren’t going anymore. He knew things had changed. I didn’t have to cancel — he had already cancelled it in his mind.

Still, I didn’t want to give up the idea of taking you to the beach. So I invited Cheila and the kids to come with us. Of course, I asked first if her husband would be okay with them riding with me and him staying behind — I figured it might feel awkward for him being the only man there. To my surprise — and our joy — he was fine with it, and they agreed to come. Now I’m actually excited for the weekend, looking forward to spending fun, relaxing days with you all by the sea.

I wish we could leave Thursday night. If the kids are going to miss school on Friday anyway, it’d make more sense to arrive there already early Friday morning and take full advantage of the day — especially since the forecast says Friday and Saturday will be warm and sunny, while Sunday might be cloudy. But Cheila’s husband wasn’t comfortable with the idea of traveling at night with the kids, and I respected that. So we agreed to leave Friday morning instead.

People always talk about how dangerous it is to drive at night, but I’ve always thought the opposite. Most accidents happen during the day, when the roads are crowded with cars, buses, and trucks. At night, it’s usually just you and the road — no traffic, barely any trucks or buses. If your vision is good and you’re wearing glasses if needed, night driving can actually be safer. But anyway, we settled on leaving around 10 a.m. Friday.

As for your dad and me… we’ve barely spoken all week. He’s been cold. I’ve been cold. What I find ironic is how he’s acting like I’m the one who did something wrong — when it was actually him who ruined Mother’s Day over a pointless argument. Today is Wednesday. You’re still not feeling well enough to go back to school, and I’m not planning to send you tomorrow either. On Friday we’ll be hitting the road early. If he had just waited and trusted me, none of this would have happened. I told him I’d send you to school if you were feeling better — and I would have. But you’re still coughing, and of course I’m not going to send you like that. I use my judgment. I’d never send you to school very sick, just like I wouldn’t keep you home if you were clearly doing better and the antibiotics were already working — that’s all I said.

But he wanted me to say you wouldn’t be going no matter what. I didn’t say that, because I was waiting to see how you’d be as the week went on. That’s what triggered the whole argument. If he’d had a little patience, none of this would’ve escalated. But no — he had to pick a fight ahead of time. And now, here we are, avoiding each other.

He’s going to miss out on some beautiful days at the beach with you. And honestly, these are the days we should be treasuring — our children’s childhoods, the little moments. Life goes by in the blink of an eye. I remember not long ago it was just the three of us in San Diego, with you still a baby. Then again with my parents. And now, compared to those trips, you’re already such a little lady. Time is flying, and he keeps letting it slip through his fingers over things I see as small. He clearly doesn’t think they’re small — and that’s his choice. But because of that, he’s missing out.

Of course it makes me sad that he won’t be with us, that he’s losing these memories with you. But if we can’t even get through Mother’s Day without a fight, how could we possibly spend several days together under the same roof? And if he keeps bringing up the same arguments, always finding a way to push me away and ruin what we could have, why should I keep trying to include him?

Why is it always on me to make sure he comes on the trips, joins the plans? He should be the one making some changes too. He should be learning to manage his anxiety around your health so we can all live a more peaceful life. But he doesn’t. And every time you get sick, it just gets worse.

So, if he’s okay missing out on weekends like this — on being with you, with us — why should I care?. I’ve already asked my sister to dissolve our legal union and to draft formal custody and child support agreements, so everything will be official. That way we’ll have fewer reasons to argue — and that’s better for you.

No child wants to see their parents fighting. And I don’t want that for you either. He’s made it clear he doesn’t care enough to stop, so now I’m done trying to fix it alone.

Life goes on. The world keeps turning.

And even though I feel so miserable today, I think after everything we went through is ok not to be ok.

 16/05 Chapter 403: No room for negotiation

I had to wake you a little before 10, and as usual, you were a bit grumpy—understandably so, having to wake up and take that awful-tasting antibiotic right away. But I knew your mood would turn around the moment you saw Noah and Sofia and got in the car with them.

We left shortly after 10, stopped to fill up the tank and check the tire pressure, and then hit the road. I thought we’d arrive around 1:30 PM, but it was actually past 2:30 by the time we got there—thanks to a few bumps along the way.

It wasn’t traffic—we hardly ran into any, just a few trucks we had to pass safely, the usual speed bumps and radars slowing us down. The real delay came when Noah started feeling sick.

He got nauseous almost immediately, even before we hit any curves. There was no proper place to stop, so we had to pull onto the shoulder, and my heart was racing. My dad was a highway patrol officer, and he always told me the shoulder is only for emergencies—it’s incredibly dangerous. He’s seen horrible accidents happen there, some involving entire families, even children. You need a strong stomach to witness that kind of tragedy. I know I couldn’t handle it.

So with trucks and cars speeding past us while we were pulled over, I was tense. But Noah needed to throw up, so we waited, then buckled him back into his car seat and continued.

You and Sofia were still awake during all this, but a while later, Noah got sick again. This time, we were lucky—there was a rest stop nearby, so we pulled in.

You and Sofia were spared because I’d given you Dramamine. It tastes terrible, but it’s the only thing that really prevents vomiting—even if it doesn't always work. I gave it to you right before we pulled out of the driveway. Of course, you complained, but with me, there’s no discussion. Some things aren’t up for debate with a child. I always tell you: you can take it on your own, or I’ll hold your arms and do it for you. You’re older now, so you get it—you usually sigh and say “I’ll do it myself,” and I’m grateful for that. You know the drill: refusing isn't an option.

Noah, on the other hand, refused to take his medicine. His mom gave him the choice. She told me he holds his breath to the point where he nearly passes out—but honestly, if a child faints, that’s the perfect opportunity to give them the medicine and then wake them up. It may sound harsh, but kids need to learn that life involves doing things they don’t want to do. He couldn’t swallow pills—fine, I had trouble with that even as a teen—but he also spit out the liquid version the moment it touched his tongue.

That’s when you have to get creative—tell the child to tuck it behind their teeth, pinch their nose, whatever works. But the bottom line is: there's no room for negotiation.

Noah was feeling so terrible that his mom started to panic too. I felt really sorry for him. The second time he threw up, when we stopped at the rest stop, he cried and begged not to die. And I understood—when you’re on the verge of throwing up, the nausea sitting in your throat, that’s one of the worst feelings. The build-up is worse than the act itself. That intense discomfort, that panic—it’s unbearable. Poor kid was so scared he thought he was dying, and his mom had to scoop him into her arms and promise he wasn’t.

She tried to give him the medicine again, and again he spit it out. I was silently horrified, but when it’s not your kid, you stay quiet. Everyone raises their children differently. You might think to yourself, “I wouldn’t do that,” but you never say it out loud. And honestly, best not to judge even internally—you never know what life might throw at you. As the saying goes, “Don’t point at someone else’s mess—yours might be next.”

When we left the rest stop—with no success getting the medicine down—Noah told his mom he wanted to go home, that this was the worst day of his life. My heart broke for him. That moment was a chance for him to understand that unless he took the medicine, he’d keep feeling miserable. His mom tried reasoning with him, but it didn’t work. So we hit the road again, tense and anxious, still only halfway to our destination.

Trying to stay positive, his mom said maybe now that he’d thrown up everything, he’d finally feel better. But believe it or not, a little while later, he got sick again. Thankfully, the vomit never smelled—it wasn’t about food, just pure nausea. Still, by the third time, his mom seemed completely lost. We all were, really. But I kept reminding myself that this kind of chaos is normal when traveling with kids.

I’ve seen it before. I never got car sick unless I read or used my phone while driving. But my sister? She used to throw up every road trip—sometimes even with medicine. So I wasn’t panicked; this was familiar territory. But for Cheila, it was clearly new, and she was shaken. Still, turning back didn’t make sense—we were closer to the beach than to home. The vomiting would happen either way.

At one point, she even hinted that the last time they traveled near here, she’d asked her husband to take a different road back—one with fewer curves. I told her that was the Caraguatatuba route, but that would turn our trip into a five-hour ordeal. I wasn’t going that way. She’d have to find a way to get the medicine in him. Besides, the curves weren’t the problem—he got sick before we’d even hit them. It was a straight stretch of road.

Still, I could tell she was shaken, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she never came back here with the kids again. And as a mother, I get it. Nothing hurts more than seeing your child suffer.

After his third and final round of vomiting, all of you finally fell asleep—including Noah. And once he was asleep, the nausea stopped. It was a huge relief for everyone, especially his mom.

By the time you all woke up, we were nearly at the beach. That’s when the fun finally began.

You ran up and hugged Grandpa, Grandma, and Great-Grandma. You showed the house to the kids, and we had a quick lunch because you were all dying to hit the beach. So off we went. But it was already close to 4 PM, so we didn’t get much beach time. All the delays, plus eating before going out, meant we arrived pretty late.

Still, you had a blast while we were there. You played, jumped over waves, and even had time for a quick dip in the pool afterward. Sadly, the water wasn’t as warm as I remembered, which made me realize it’s probably not heated at all. That one hot day must’ve just warmed it naturally. But for you kids, it was perfect.

We didn’t stay long though—it was getting late, and the wind started picking up. Sofia was shivering and turning purple, so we headed back for hot showers.

One important thing I forgot to mention: the swimsuit you're wearing used to be mine when I was a little girl. From mother to daughter—at this age, we wore the very same clothes.

After going back to the house, you’d eaten tons of beach snacks, so no one was really hungry. I did notice, though, that Noah is incredibly picky—even with junk food. His mom had mentioned he only eats chicken nuggets, and she wasn’t exaggerating. Lunch, dinner... No rice, no sides. He’s even picky with sweets—he once spat out those delicious Belgian chocolates I brought from the U.S.! The only desserts he likes are a very specific kind of Bauducco cookie and the soft-serve cone from McDonald’s. That’s it.

It really shocked me, honestly. I wish your dad had been there to see what “bad eating” really looks like. You may not be the most adventurous eater, but I work hard to vary your meals and introduce new things all the time.

I even got you to eat a little pasta, though I know seeing the other kids eat poorly doesn’t help. It’s tough when peer influence kicks in.

After the beach, we showered, and the night was all fun and games around the house. When bedtime came, you all fell asleep instantly. And you, especially, slept like a rock—you were completely worn out.

 17/05 Chapter 404: Come too far to slip away

We woke up around 10:30 today and headed downstairs for breakfast. Day two of what I can only describe as a nutritional nightmare. You wanted nothing but colorful Froot Loops, skipping yogurt entirely, and ended up eating mostly junk food just like the other kids. Noah nearly gave me a heart attack when he started eating straight-up sugar from a bowl, and then, just to top it off, their mom made hot dogs for breakfast. Thank God you didn’t ask for either — if you had, I think I actually would’ve had that heart attack. But you also didn’t eat what you usually do — yogurt, cake, juice, bread… sigh. But it’s fine. I keep telling myself I’m here to enjoy the vacation, to relax. Tomorrow we go home, and everything returns to normal.

I did feel a little anxious when I noticed Noah sneezing and coughing during the night. It’s hard not to worry, especially after just going through pneumonia with you. But I tried to push the anxiety aside and enjoy the day — we headed to the beach before noon, and they’d already set up chairs and umbrellas for us. We ended up spending a lovely day out there — four full hours by the beach. When we got back, it was past 4 p.m.

You two played like crazy, jumping over waves, building sandcastles (or destroying the ones Noah built), fighting a little here and there, then making up again like nothing happened. At one point, you got tired and wanted to leave, but the other kids still wanted to stay. So I wrapped you up in a towel, gave you your pacifier, and let you watch a bit of a cartoon in my lap. Half an hour later, you were ready for round two. You had ice cream, and I was surprised to see that Noah didn’t enjoy his popsicle today either. And not just that — he also didn’t like the snack I brought, which is odd because kids usually love that stuff. Turns out, his picky eating goes beyond savory foods — he’s selective even with sweets. He did eat a Bauducco cookie at breakfast, the same one you had too (yes, more junk food today for you), and I’ve seen him eat a vanilla McDonald’s cone, and that’s about it. I even offered him a madeleine — a soft, sweet French cake — and he didn’t like that either. But back to the beach — you had a great time, and it was such a lovely day. I even got to read my book, which I’m really enjoying. It’s about teenage criminals who’ve had their memories erased to start life over — a second chance to live in society. I honestly don’t know why it hasn’t been turned into a movie yet, because it’s so good. I’m devouring it. Sofia also got a “tereré” — those colorful braided threads people put in their hair. I told her how I used to get one every January and July when we’d go to Caraguatatuba. I was obsessed. I’d get them done every vacation and feel like the coolest girl on the beach. Sofia’s version was a little different — nowadays you get to pick the thread colors and even add beads. Back in my day, they just clipped one in and that was it — you picked from ready-made styles, and honestly, I liked that version better. Maybe you can still find them like that somewhere, but I’m not sure. Still, it was Sofia’s first tereré, and she really liked it. We really made the most of the day. After the beach, we headed to the pool — which, to my surprise, was even colder than the day before. But that didn’t stop you; you jumped right in and actually ended up staying in longer this time. Then we spotted a huge crab near the poolside shower. You were fascinated, and honestly, so was I. It had camouflaged itself against the wall — same color and all — clearly terrified of us. But Cheila was way more scared of the crab than it was of her, which made me laugh! We hung out in the pool chatting while you kids played and splashed. Later, we headed back to the house, got everyone cleaned up, made dinner, and just relaxed indoors. Even then, you and the other kids kept playing non-stop. I brought back some old-school games I used to love when I was little, but you’re still a bit young to follow most of them. The only one you really enjoyed was "hot potato", which worked perfectly for your age — and you had fun. Dinner, though... that was another disaster. Again, you all ate horribly. Cheila told me not to worry, that she gave you and Noah a bowl of nuggets, and that dinner was covered. But seriously — a bowl of nuggets is not dinner Couldn’t she at least add some rice? I started getting anxious, wondering if just two days here might undo all the progress we’ve made. Only I know how hard I work every single night to get you to eat well, to try new foods, to clean your plate. It’s exhausting, but it’s working. And now I keep thinking — we’ve come too far to let it all slip away.

18/05 Chapter 405: All the moments I'd kindly undo

Our beach days are over now. We woke up around 10:30 or 11:00, and you wanted to wake Grandpa who had arrived in the middle of the night with Grandma and Great-Grandma.

They came late because my mom had surgery super early that morning (a blepharoplasty, which is basically to remove extra skin from the eyelids). It helps smooth out wrinkles and lighten dark circles. But it’s still surgery, with anesthesia and everything. Still, your grandpa was enjoying the beach so much and was so set on getting things done that he didn’t wait even a day. As soon as my mom got released in the morning, they got in the car and drove straight here overnight.

The thing is, she came back really bruised. That’s normal after surgery—it’s aggressive on the skin. I remember when I had my nose done, people looked at me like I’d been in a fight. And my mom wasn’t any different—actually, hers looked worse. Her bruises were around her eyes, and because she’s so fair-skinned, it looked even more dramatic. Mine was just on my nose, but it still showed around the eyes too.

When my mom video called Rafinha, his mouth dropped open. And you were a little unsure too. You didn’t really understand what was going on, even though she kept her sunglasses on almost the entire time.

Today I wasn’t having it with junk food. Cheila served some nuggets and a few other not-so-great options, but I made sure you sat down and ate a big plate of rice and ground beef—and thank God, you did. You ate it all and seemed full and happy.

Once we started getting everything packed to head home, I went to give you your antibiotic and realized it was finished. You still had two more days left to complete the 10-day course the doctor had prescribed. So I messaged him, and he said he’d send the prescription to my email. But when I mentioned you were still coughing a little, he told me to give it for four more days instead, so now 14 days total.

Before we hit the road, my dad stopped at the pharmacy. He grabbed the medicine for my mom and bought your antibiotics too. Thank God, because it cost R$275, and honestly, that’s money I just don’t have right now.

Before leaving, we spent one last hour in the pool with you kids. It was easier than dealing with the beach again—sand everywhere, too much work. So you all enjoyed your third day of pool time, and it was perfect.

Cheila was so happy because she managed to crush up the medicine and mix it into Yakult. He drank it without even noticing, so we were good for about four hours. But she gave it to him around 3 p.m., so we didn’t have much time left before it wore off.

We were barely on the road when it looked like you might give us a hard time. Cheila’s kids were clearly trying to sleep, eyes half-shut, ready to knock out—and there you were, chatting away, poking them, doing everything possible to keep them awake. But thank God, after a while, when we glanced back, we saw three little angels fast asleep. That brought us such relief. At least we’d have one quiet hour on the road… and then only an hour and a half left to survive whatever chaos might come next.

But, of course, nothing ever goes according to plan in my life.

My phone rang, and the screen lit up with “Mom.” I answered, and she didn’t even say hello. She just jumped in, clearly annoyed: “You forgot your backpack with your laptop. You’ll have to come back or go without it until Thursday.”

Thursday. And this was Sunday.

There was no way I could survive four days without that computer. First, because it’s how I make all my sales—no laptop, no business. Second, it’s how I manage my dad’s work too. Basically, all my jobs would come to a halt.

But we’d already been on the road for 40 minutes. Going back would mean another 40, and then another 40 to get back to where we were. I’d just lost nearly two hours of travel.

When I told Cheila we had to turn around, bless her heart—she really tried not to curse me out. And she succeeded. Barely. You could feel how much she wanted to scream. Noah had finally fallen asleep, so she was counting on a smooth ride. And then here comes my scatterbrained self forgetting the one thing I couldn’t live without.

By the time we got back on track, the kids would probably be awake again. And that realization crushed me. Not just because I forgot something, but because my memory is actually affecting other people now. And that sucks.

My memory has already messed up so much in my life. Honestly, if I told you all the things I’ve forgotten, you wouldn’t believe half of them. But maybe one day I will. Some of them are so bad, they stuck with me forever.

The first time my memory really messed things up—one I remember clearly—was during our very first family trip to New York. It was winter, the cozy kind, with snow dusting the trees in Central Park like a painting.

Every morning, because of the cold, we’d head to Starbucks for something warm. I remember I had this little black pouch I carried everywhere. Inside was my phone, some cash, and the hotel key card to open our room.

Well… the moment we got back to the hotel, I realized it was gone. I had forgotten my pouch at Starbucks—with my brand-new iPhone, $300 in cash, and the hotel key card inside. That was it. Trip ruined. I was heartbroken. Not only had I lost my phone, but I’d lost a lot of money too.

We rushed back to Starbucks the moment I realized, but of course—just like I feared—nothing was there anymore. And that really hit me. I always thought of the U.S. as this super honest place, especially compared to Brazil. But then I reminded myself: New York isn’t just Americans. It’s people from all over the world. Whoever took it could’ve turned it in to the staff, but they didn’t.

And here’s the twist: weeks later, after we’d already returned to Brazil, the hotel contacted me. Someone had dropped off the iPhone. Just the phone. So clearly someone found the pouch, saw the hotel key card inside, and decided to return only what they thought was "useless"—which, for many Americans, is an iPhone that’s locked and basically unusable.

I guess whoever took it thought: “Well, I need the cash, but if I return the phone, maybe I’m not that bad of a person.”

sigh… That’s not how honesty works.

Taking the money and keeping it is still theft. And yeah, that person was a thief, even if they tried to soften the blow. Still, I was thankful the phone made its way back. I had already bought a new one, but luckily Miguel’s brother who lived in New York was able to pick it up, give it to Miguel, and Miguel passed it on to me when we met. I ended up selling it and recovered some of what I’d spent. But honestly? That moment ruined the whole trip for me.

The second time my forgetfulness left a mark was in 2019, when I went back to San Diego, hoping to reconnect with your dad. But before that, I stopped in New York to see a Swiss friend I’d met during my exchange program. He agreed to meet me there so we could spend a few days exploring the city. Miguel was living in New York at the time too, so I’d get to see two close friends at once. Perfect plan.

After those few days in the city, it was time to head to San Diego. I was already at the airport, ready to board, standing in line when I realized something was missing.

My document pouch. My passport. Gone.

Panic hit me like a truck. It was one of those moments where time slows down, and your stomach drops. I felt like I was inside a movie, but not in a good way. The floor disappeared under my feet. I was going to miss my flight.

And I did.

Luckily, I was already in the U.S., so worst case scenario, I could make my way to San Diego by car. But if I had lost that passport back in Brazil before the flight? I wouldn’t have even made it into the country.

I went straight to the American Airlines counter, explained what had happened, and they were incredibly kind. They made an announcement over the speaker, asking if anyone had found a blue document pouch. Not long after, someone called to say it had been turned in—at the 7-Eleven I’d stopped at for coffee before heading to the airport. I had left it on the counter while paying.

This is why I always say: I need to wear a fanny pack or a backpack. Not a purse—a fanny pack or a strapped-on backpack. If I’m holding something in my hand, I’m guaranteed to lose it. It happens every time. I need all my important stuff strapped to me, because if it’s not… well, we’ve seen what happens. Just like that black pouch in New York. Just like the document folder that slipped from my hand when I got distracted.

To my surprise, American Airlines put me on the next flight to San Diego—for free. I was so relieved, especially since I was terrified of having to buy another ticket. I couldn’t help but laugh and compare it to how things would’ve gone in Brazil. Let’s just say… not the same.

And then I had this weird thought: What if this was divine intervention? What if the flight I missed was destined to crash? And I started to feel grateful for my forgetfulness.

...Until I thought about the opposite.

What if the flight I’m now taking—the one I wasn’t even supposed to be on—is the one that crashes?

That would make way more sense with my usual luck.

Another thing I remember clearly was a time I went to New Jersey with my old friend Roberta. We were at a shopping mall there, and I was carrying this pink purse. At some point, while I was browsing through clothes, I placed my bag on top of a pile so I could hold some items in my hands and get a better look. Since I wasn’t planning to buy anything right away, I wasn’t even using the bag… and I completely forgot it there.

I only realized it was missing when I went to pay for something a while later. My heart dropped.

Luckily, when I rushed back, someone had turned it in. Nothing was taken—not my wallet, not my cash—unlike the Starbucks' story. But it was still a huge scare, especially because my passport was inside. And losing a passport in a foreign country? That’s a nightmare I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Remember that story about your grandpa in Orlando, when he lost his passport and almost had to drive all the way to Miami?

There was another time I left my iPhone on the table at an Outback Steakhouse in the U.S., but thank God, when I went back, it was still there and someone had kept it safe for me. Honestly, I could probably write an entire book just about all the things I’ve lost because of my memory and all the times it’s caused me trouble. Not just for me, but for other people too.

Like when my mom asks me to bring something important and I forget it... or like this road trip, where my forgetfulness meant dragging you kids and Cheila through two extra hours of driving.

Anyway—back to that day. It took about 30 minutes to go back and get the stuff, and then another 40 to get us back to where we had left off before the detour. Once things had calmed down, I apologized to Cheila and explained that this kind of thing happens to me a lot. It might have been new to her, but for my family, it’s kind of expected by now. Not that I’m proud of it. Honestly, I’d give anything to undo moments like this. I didn’t choose this brain. I hate it sometimes, especially when it makes me relive stressful moments like these.

In the end, you kids actually woke up before we even got back to the same point on the road, but thankfully, no one got sick and there were no meltdowns this time, which was a huge relief.

On the way back, we stopped at a McDonald’s that was about half an hour from home. And wow... regret hit hard. We ended up stuck in the drive-thru for almost an hour. And the worst part? There was no way out. It was one of those setups where they place attendants along the lane to take your order early on, so once you’re in, you’re trapped. There’s no turning back.

Sheila had asked me to stop for a vanilla cone for the kids—and I did—but if I’d known how long it was going to take, I either would’ve gone inside to order, stopped at a different McDonald’s, or just skipped it altogether. What a mess.

But hey, the important thing is: despite all the hiccups, detours, and delays, we made it home safe and sound. That’s what really matters in the end.

19-26/05 Chapter 406: Not afraid

You continued taking antibiotics throughout the week, and even though you still had a bit of a cough and some lingering congestion, you were doing well. At school, you’ve been busy with all sorts of fun things—practicing a song for Mother’s Day, learning a music-and-dance routine for next month’s Junina party, and dancing during music class. Look at this video of you and the other kids dancing—it's the sweetest thing. I couldn’t stop watching it; I completely melted.

And this week, you gave me the most adorable Mother’s Day collage. I got emotional, of course—it was the very first piece of art you made for me at school. I really need to buy a folder to keep all of your little masterpieces safe. I know there are so many more to come.

But then the weekend came, and by Friday, we noticed you were starting to get really congested again. When we went to my parents’ house, your breathing was heavy, and since you had just gotten over pneumonia, my mom and I thought it would be best to take you to the hospital for an X-ray—just to be sure everything was okay.

We got to the hospital around 10 p.m. and didn’t leave until 2 a.m. Even though the waiting room wasn’t crowded, things always slow down during the overnight shift because of the staff change. The doctor took a long time to call us in—it seems they review all the cases during that time, so the process itself was quick, but the wait to be seen was long.

When your X-ray results came in, you were with your grandma. You wanted to stay with her this time, so while I waited in the lobby, she went in with you—since the hospital only allows one companion per child. If we’d known, we probably would’ve gone to Sabará instead…

So it was my mom who spoke with the doctor. She said the doctor seemed unsure about your scan—she mentioned it looked identical to the one you’d done previously at this same hospital. But then my mom showed her the more recent X-ray from Sabará, and the doctor admitted that the one from Sabará had looked much worse. She said that now your lungs looked more like they did in the first scan—still not great, but nothing alarming. Most likely, it was just some leftover inflammation from the pneumonia.

Still, the doctor didn’t sound entirely certain, and that left us feeling uneasy. So first thing in the morning, I messaged Dr. Humberto’s secretary and begged her to squeeze us in. Thankfully, she did—and got us an appointment for 2 p.m.

I asked my mom if we could get there about fifteen minutes early, since I knew 2 p.m. was Dr. Humberto’s first appointment after lunch. I figured that if we were the first to arrive, maybe—just maybe—we’d be the first to be seen, and we wouldn’t have to wait long. I’ve never once been the first in line for Dr. Humberto, but hey—hope dies last, right?

When we got there, my mom dropped me off with you so she could look for parking. She also ran across the street to São Camilo Hospital to pick up your X-ray so we could bring it with us. But when I went to ask if we could go upstairs, the secretary was still on her lunch break, so we had to wait in the lobby. To my surprise—and absolute joy—we actually were the first. The moment Dr. Humberto arrived, we were called in right away. That had never happened before, and I was honestly thrilled.

My mom met us just in time with the X-ray in hand. Dr. Humberto looked at it and said that the issue always seems to appear in the exact same spot. It had improved, yes, but he could still see something there—always in that same specific area. Then he told us a story about a patient who kept having recurrent pneumonia in the exact same spot, just like you. Eventually, they performed a bronchoscopy and found a small piece of latex lodged in the lung—a bit from a pacifier. And I told him that could absolutely be the case with you, because lately you’ve started biting through your pacifiers. You had six, and five are already torn.

He recommended that we start physical therapy right away and gave us the name of a therapist in the North Zone. He asked us to do a few sessions this week and then repeat the X-ray. If it still shows the same thing, he said he would recommend a bronchoscopy. He also told us to cancel your surgery—for now—which absolutely broke my heart. The surgery is scheduled for the fifth, and we’ve been counting down the days, hoping it’ll bring some real relief for you, that the colds and congestion will ease once your adenoids are out.

So, for now, we’ve decided to go ahead with the physical therapy this week, repeat the X-ray, and if needed, then we’ll postpone the surgery. But I’m not ready to cancel it just yet.

More than anything, I just want you to be well so we can move forward with the surgery. I’m really hoping for that. And honestly—I’m not afraid. I know everything’s going to be fine. I know this surgery is going to improve your life, and I trust the doctor completely—he’s the same one who diagnosed me with that rare form of labyrinthitis. You’re strong. You’ve already been through tougher things and come out just fine. That’s why I’m not scared. I believe in you.

28/05 Chapter 407: There's too much at stake

Today I went with my mom to see the plastic surgeon who performed her procedure. Funny enough, this surgeon was originally recommended to me by the ex-sister-in-law of an old friend, Roberta. She had her breast implants done with him, and she recommended him back when I was looking for a surgeon. Then came my mom, and later my sister—he basically became the family’s go-to surgeon. Not to mention the number of clients I referred to him after I posted a YouTube video talking about my own experience.

He’s not the best surgeon in the world—he can be quite forgetful with certain details, which honestly makes me nervous about trusting him with something like liposuction. I’ll give you an example: I have a folded ear. I don’t know if it was from my mom losing amniotic fluid or maybe just the position I was laid in as a newborn. It’s never bothered me much since I rarely wear my hair up, but whenever I do, it becomes this thing I can’t unsee.

The first time I got implants, he said a tiny stitch could fix it. But then he forgot to do it. I couldn’t really complain—it was being done for free. When I went in for my second surgery, he swore he’d take care of it that time. He even marked the ear before the procedure. But nothing really changed. It was like he didn’t touch it at all. And for a plastic surgeon, that’s something that shouldn’t be overlooked.

He’s not a bad doctor, he’s just not the kind I’d entrust with something as serious as liposuction, where your life is literally in their hands. Still, I really want the surgery, so I booked a consultation. My mom had already mentioned my case to him when she went in, explaining how much my lower belly bothers me. Even though I’m thin—just 45 kilos—I still have that stubborn pouch.

He thought I might be a candidate for a mini lipo, which is supposedly safer, so I got my hopes up. But when I went in, he examined my belly—grabbed the fat with his hand like it was Jell-O—right in front of two resident doctors, and said no, it had to be the full procedure. That alone deflated me a bit.

I also asked about changing my implants to a size 50 or 100ml bigger, but he said to do that properly I’d need a double procedure—remove skin to lift the breasts and then replace the implants. But I really don’t want to go that route. It’s done through the areola, and I’ve always had mine done through the crease under the breast. My sister’s scars around the areola look awful. That’s another thing that makes me question his work.

His secretary told me she’ll send the prices this week for each surgery separately and then both combined so I can decide.

But I keep going back and forth. One day I’m sure I’ll do it, the next I’m terrified. I do believe in investing in your self-esteem, in doing what makes you feel good in your own skin. But at the same time, this isn’t a major issue, it’s small, even if it does bother me. And liposuction is one of the most dangerous surgeries in plastic surgery.

If I didn’t have you, I’d probably go for it without thinking twice. But now I have you. I’ve said it so many times, I want to live every moment with you. And there’s your dad to think about too. I know that if anything ever happened to me, he wouldn’t stay in Brazil and I wouldn’t blame him. He’d take you to Europe, and my parents wouldn’t just lose their daughter, they’d lose their granddaughter too. That would be devastating for them.

And I don’t know what your life would be like over there. They’re such different people, with different habits, routines, ways of thinking. Your life would be much more rigid. I worry so much about leaving you behind over something as vain as this.

Some mornings I wake up and think, “Nothing’s going to happen, I’m going to do it.” And others I wake up thinking, “No way. My daughter comes first. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted, and I won’t risk it for vanity.”

So I live in this constant tug-of-war—between something that bothers me daily and something I’m deeply afraid of.

I picture your dad one day getting married again. You calling someone else “Mom.” And I wouldn’t even mind if you called my mom that—she’s been the best mother in the world to me. But a stranger? Calling someone I never met “Mom” because of one stupid decision on my part? That breaks me.

I don’t feel 100% confident. And when I bring up the risk of death, the doctor says nothing. Not even a comforting word. As if it’s something that really could happen, and he just doesn’t have anything to say. That silence makes the fear so much worse.

What a dilemma.
If only I could know, with absolute certainty, that I’d come out alive.

31/05 Chapter 408: When kindness isn't protocol

During the week, we had our physiotherapy sessions with the therapist Dr. Humberto recommended, and I really liked her. She was so kind and attentive, charged much less than the one from Sabará who used to come here, and stayed for a much longer time. Since your antibiotic would run out by Friday, I figured the best plan was to get an X-ray done on Saturday—and luckily, I managed to schedule it. The only available slot was at 10 a.m., and although I couldn't get an appointment at my preferred lab, A+, I was able to book it at Delboni. That was fine. It’s nearby, and it was just an X-ray—I was hopeful everything would go smoothly.

But as soon as we got there on Saturday, things got chaotic. When your name appeared on the screen, I went to the front desk, like always, ready to present your insurance card and ID so they could register you. But the receptionist, who was anything but friendly, told me they didn’t accept digital IDs—only physical copies. I asked since when, because you had done an X-ray there not long ago and nobody asked for the physical document back then. Honestly, your ID or passport has been with your grandfather for so long I can’t even remember the last time I actually used it anywhere.

What really upset me wasn’t just the refusal—it was the way she spoke to me. She made it sound like it was outrageous not to have your physical ID on hand, saying it was "the bare minimum," her exact words. That made me feel terrible, like I was a negligent mother just because I didn’t have a physical document with me. But I know it's not the law. I’d just been at São Camilo hospital with your grandmother, and they didn’t ask for any ID. Same with Sabará—every time we’ve gone there, they let you send it by email. The A+ lab also never required a physical document. So clearly, it was their own internal rule, but she tried to pass it off as a universal law, which simply isn’t true. I’ve been through this in enough places to know.

I told her exactly that—I had just been to the hospital with you and no one had demanded a physical document. But then she started arguing with me. I pushed back, reminding her that even at Delboni, the last time we were there, they didn’t require it. She said that was a mistake and whoever helped me must’ve done it wrong. And from there, we started going back and forth.

Naturally, all eyes turned to us—because people have this irresistible urge to involve themselves in things that aren’t their business. Whether it’s something great or something going wrong, people can’t help but stare. They don’t even try to pretend they’re not watching. And there we were, in the middle of it all.

Then the supervisor came over to try to understand what was going on and calm things down—but, of course, she immediately took the receptionist’s side. While I was trying to explain the situation to her, the receptionist kept interrupting, arguing with me, which only made me more angry. I told her, firmly, that I wasn’t speaking with her anymore, I was now speaking with the supervisor, and she needed to stop. Still, she kept insisting it was “the law,” and I replied that your grandfather is a lawyer—he would never keep your ID if it were legally required, especially knowing you might need it. That’s when she snapped back and said she was a law graduate too… Honestly, I nearly told her that if she’s such a great lawyer, why is she working reception? Clearly, she doesn’t understand the law at all. But I held back—saying that would have only made things worse, and all I wanted was for you to get that X-ray.

So I spoke with the supervisor, trying to explain calmly that in all the places I’ve taken you, a physical ID has never been required. If I had known their policy beforehand, of course I would’ve brought it. But since most clinics don’t ask for it—and even Delboni didn’t last time—I assumed they wouldn’t this time either. It wasn’t a new rule; it was clearly a mistake on their part for not asking before. I don’t have a crystal ball to guess that this time they’d decide to follow a protocol that isn’t even consistent.

I also explained that if we couldn’t do the X-ray, I’d have no choice but to take you to a hospital on a Saturday, crowded with sick children, which would put you at even greater risk. All because they wouldn’t accept a digital document or let me email it. I even called my dad, and he confirmed that there’s no such law—what the receptionist was saying was nonsense. But he also said that if it’s company policy, there’s not much I can do. So I tried to stay calm and speak more gently to the supervisor. She wasn’t exactly willing at first, but eventually, she relented. She said—reluctantly—that she’d make an exception this time, since she’s also a mother and understood that we were trying to confirm whether or not you still had pneumonia. But she made it very clear that it would be a one-time exception. If something were to happen and they didn’t have proper ID, the lab could be held responsible.

I said that was fine. And I meant it. I just won’t be going back to that lab again. What mattered was that we were finally allowed to go upstairs for the X-ray and send the results to Dr. Humberto so he could tell us whether you were ready for surgery. Because more than anything, we want you to have this surgery and be free from all of this once and for all.

Before she let us go completely, the supervisor added something that left me speechless. She said, “It makes me really sad that a hospital like São Camilo doesn’t require documents. It’s about patient safety.” Really? You’re sad about that? You don’t even know the protocols they follow. If they accept scanned or photographed documents, it’s because it’s valid. It's fine. Different institutions have different rules. What you can’t do is act like your company’s internal rule is universal law. There are far more serious things in this world to be sad about.

But at the end of the day, the real lesson here is this: when someone in a position of power decides they want to make your life harder, they will. This wasn’t about law. It was about empathy—or lack of it. Almost every place accepts digital documents. The supervisor eventually showed some humanity and gave us a break, which I appreciated. But if the receptionist had just explained things differently—something like, “Mom, I understand, but here we can only do what the supervisor approves. If I make an exception, it could affect me. Do you want to speak with her?”—then none of this would’ve escalated.

It’s all in how you talk to people, how you handle problems, how you offer support to a customer, a guest, or a patient. Communication is everything. I truly believe even tragedies sometimes happen because of poor communication—things that could’ve gone a completely different way.

Unfortunately, not everyone cares about other people’s situations. Some simply lack empathy, and that’s that. And when you come across people like that, you end up in situations no one wants to be in.

I’m someone who avoids conflict at all costs. I don’t like fights, I don’t like confrontations. But when something crosses a certain line, when something feels truly absurd, I can’t stay silent, and things can get heated. I know all of this could’ve been avoided. But in the end, we did the X-ray. I sent it to Dr. Humberto, and he said everything looked fine. Now, if you’re feeling okay, we can move forward with the surgery and finally put all this behind us.

After the X-ray, I dropped you off at your aunt’s house because a package had just arrived from the U.S., and I had a lot of work to do. Since we’d all be going to the school’s June festival and then heading up to the Serra together, I didn’t want to be buried in work while your dad played babysitter. I wanted to enjoy that time with you both, so I tried to get ahead on everything before the festival.

When we arrived at the festa junina, you were shy at first, but as soon as you spotted Rafinha, you relaxed. You were supposed to dance, but you barely did, just swayed your little dress from side to side a few times. You really are shy. Your dad keeps scolding me for saying that, insisting that if I keep saying it, you’ll internalize it and become even more shy. But I don’t understand that logic. Shyness is real. Some people are extroverted, others are introverted. Saying someone is shy isn’t an insult. It’s just how they are, it doesn’t change anything. But I didn’t want to argue, so I just agreed and let it go. Still, the truth is: you’re a shy child, and that’s okay.

We had pastel and soda at the festival, and you ate with us. It was sweet. Watching the kids from your school dance was adorable, even though you barely danced. We still got some photos and a video to remember it.

The cutest moment was when you held hands with your little friend Manuela. You talk about her all the time.

After that, we stopped quickly at the apartment, and you got to play a little with Noah and Sofia. You had so much fun, completely forgot your shyness, and just let yourself be you.

And then we went home, grateful that the X-ray was done, and happy to have enjoyed even a small part of the festival together.