To my daughter Melanie (June 2025)

 01-02/06 Chapter 409: Can you practice what you preach?

The weekend turned out surprisingly well. For the first time in ages, your dad and I got along without a single fight, which, honestly, felt like such a relief.

But the week ahead was going to be tricky. We had to keep you home from school until Wednesday because your surgery was scheduled for Thursday. And since your dad was completely swamped with work all week, most of the care would fall on me. Not that I mind, let’s be real, moms usually end up doing most of it anyway.

This morning, I decided to stop by the building across from the mall where I get my laser hair removal done, just to check on my session. I do laser almost everywhere because I really don’t like body hair. Last year, they had this amazing promotion—R$1200 for lifetime sessions on any part of the body. Of course, I signed up. I've been going regularly ever since, though sessions can only be booked every two months.

They usually send a confirmation text the day before each session, but this time, I hadn’t gotten any messages. I remembered my next appointment was supposed to be in late May, and here we were already in June. When I checked, I realized it had been scheduled for the 27th, meaning I’d missed it. But since they always send reminders, I didn’t feel entirely to blame.

The truth is, their lasers really work. I’ve seen such a big reduction in hair, and I was genuinely happy with the results. But their communication? A nightmare. Whenever you need to reschedule or get in touch for anything, it’s always a struggle. So there I was, dragging you along with me, paying for parking, using up gas, all because they wouldn't answer a simple message, and I was ready to go in there angry and demand answers.

But when I arrived, I got hit with a surprise: the receptionist calmly told me the place had shut down. I blinked. What do you mean shut down? She explained that the company had been shut down by the courts. Every branch, not just this one. National and even international locations were closed. The office was abandoned, deliveries were still showing up, and the employees had just stopped coming. And honestly? As much as it shocked me, I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.

The first red flag was when they moved from the mall to a regular office building. The mall was much more visible, harder to hide from customers. Then they started reducing their working hours, and every time I went, the place was emptier than before. I had a gut feeling that something was going to happen, though I thought maybe just this location would close, not the entire franchise. So yes, I was upset. But surprised? Not really.

My first real worry was about why the courts shut them down. I panicked for a second. Was it a health issue? Was the laser equipment dangerous or harmful? But the receptionist quickly reassured me that it had nothing to do with the equipment. It was about labor complaints, mass layoffs, and unethical practices reported to consumer protection agencies. Nothing that would put my health at risk, which eased my mind a bit.

Still, what could I do? I’d paid over a thousand reais for a lifetime service I could no longer use. Now I’d have to start over somewhere else and spend even more. What hurt the most was that I’d liked that place—they used a lower intensity setting on me, since I’m sensitive to pain, and it still worked well. Since I was on a lifetime plan, they never had to crank it up.

The receptionist also told me that, just two weeks ago, a woman had paid around R$6000 for laser sessions for herself and her daughter only to have the company shut down the following week. Can you imagine? Losing six thousand reais like that? Sure, she could take them to court, but that’s a whole other headache—time, money, stress. It’s exhausting.

After that frustrating discovery, I thought we deserved a treat. I took you to the mall for milkshakes. I’d found a spot there that made a Leite Ninho and Nutella milkshake, probably the best I’ve ever had. But I was torn, because they also had pistachio, which I love. Today I decided to try the pistachio one, just to compare.

As we were heading to the milkshake place, a sweet-looking older lady pulling a little rolling suitcase stopped us and asked if I wanted to buy coloring books for you. She had Snow White ones and other characters, just R$15. I smiled and politely declined. We were already treating ourselves, and I now had this unexpected laser expense. Plus, let’s be honest, you already have a mountain of coloring books at home. You really didn’t need another one.

She insisted again, but I gently repeated that it wasn’t necessary.

We ended up in the elevator with her, along with another older woman and her adult son. Then the first lady asked the second if she liked crossword puzzles—a popular pastime among older folks—and the second woman said yes. They began chatting, and the seller took the opportunity to offer a crossword magazine with over 500 activities for just R$19. Really affordable. But the moment she turned it into a sales pitch, the second woman’s expression changed. She wasn’t interested, she had just been making conversation. The seller kept trying anyway, just like she had with me. And look, I admire her hustle—out working on a weekday afternoon, that’s no small thing. I just genuinely didn’t buy anything because we didn’t need it.

We finally got our milkshakes. I got the pistachio one, and you picked a pink cotton candy flavor, covered in colorful sprinkles. Mine was delicious, but I have to say, the Leite Ninho with Nutella is still my favorite. You absolutely devoured yours, it was so thick and creamy, it was practically ice cream.

But then, in the middle of our milkshake break, the woman came back. She started muttering something I couldn’t quite catch, so I smiled politely and nodded. But after a moment, I realized she was cursing me, insulting me. I froze, confused, trying to make sense of her words. She was saying things like our generation was ungrateful, that we trample over the older generation, and that one day we’d grow old and get a taste of our own medicine.

I was stunned, holding you in my arms, and all I could say was, “Ma’am, are you okay? What are you talking about?” I didn’t raise my voice, I just couldn’t believe what was happening.

After that, she threw a few more insults my way and walked off, leaving me completely stunned. I hadn't done anything to her. Absolutely nothing. Thankfully, you had no idea what was going on. You were too busy being happy and thrilled with your pink milkshake to even notice. And thank God for that.

But later, as we were driving home, I started thinking about it. And instead of feeling angry, I felt sorry for her. She was an elderly woman, out working in the afternoon, dragging a little suitcase around the mall. At her age, if she was still doing that, it must’ve been because she needed to. Maybe she just wanted to sell something. Maybe she just wanted someone to notice her. And maybe that day had been a total bust—no sales, no kindness—and I became the unfortunate target of her frustration.

And you know, sometimes we need to be kind even when people are rude to us. Kindness can disarm even the harshest person. When someone is being cruel, the last thing they expect is gentleness in return, and that’s exactly what takes them off guard. But that's the hardest part, isn’t it? Taking a deep breath and responding with kindness when someone is trying to hurt you. I didn’t manage it in the moment. I was caught off guard, just reacting, like most people do. It’s in our nature to react first and reflect later. That’s why people say you should never make decisions when you’re upset—and they’re right.

Later, I thought: what if I had just invited her to sit with us? What if I’d listened, even if I didn’t buy anything? Just giving her a little attention might have been enough to brighten her day. I could’ve taken her number and said I’d share her work with some friends, even if I wasn’t buying at the time. That alone might have made her feel seen, appreciated. Or honestly? I could’ve just bought the stupid coloring book. Sure, I’m saving up for the apartment and a million other things, but what is R$15, really? It might have made her day. It might have made her feel like her effort mattered to someone.

And then I realized something else. I missed an opportunity. Not just to be kind to a stranger, but to show you something. To set a better example, right there in front of you. I could’ve shown you that we can make the world a little better, one tiny act at a time. I could’ve shown you that even when someone’s being unpleasant, we still have the power to respond with compassion. I have a charity group, I preach daily/weekly/monthly about doing good, and when I have the opportunity right in front of me, I couldn't practice what I preach.

Sometimes we only realize these things too late.

 05/06 Chapter 409: Can you practice what you preach?

Your surgery was scheduled for 7:30 a.m., but the hospital asked us to arrive 2 hours early. That meant we needed to be there by 5:30 a.m., so your dad stayed over at the house, and I set the alarm for 4:30. By 5:00, we were on the road, and thanks to the early hour, there was no traffic. We arrived right on time.

Even with empty streets, the hospital wasn’t exactly close. It still took us about half an hour to get there, and if it had been later in the day, it could’ve taken an hour or more. So, that was one benefit of having such an early surgery slot. You woke up briefly but fell right back asleep in the car, only really waking up when we arrived at the hospital, probably because the environment was unfamiliar. We checked in at 5:30, and everything moved quickly. They directed us to the room in less than ten minutes, which was great. I should mention that the front desk had no issue accepting your documents by email. Can you believe that? /irony. Another hospital added to the list of places that accept scanned documents for check-in—and not just for a simple X-ray, but for a surgery under general anesthesia! That makes four establishments now, against just one—Delboni. Maybe it’s time they reconsider their outdated policies. Or perhaps it was just that specific location we went to, where the supervisor insisted on in-person originals. I’m not sure. Either way, I plan to file a formal complaint online to see how they respond.

After sending in the documents, we headed up to the room, and I was genuinely impressed. It was big and beautiful, even nicer and more spacious than the one at Sabará. There were two beds, plus a third one for an adult, likely meant for the person accompanying the child. Much more comfortable than squeezing onto a tiny couch. There were also two lounge chairs you could push together to sleep on. In those two hours before surgery doctors came and went. The anesthesiologist came in to examine you, and we were nervous on the way to the hospital, you had started coughing. Not just once or twice, but several times. We began to worry: first, because you can't go into surgery while sick, and second, because you were having your tonsils removed, and coughing could really hurt your throat. You hadn’t been like that the day before, so I was feeling discouraged. I also noticed that your nose was a bit stuffy, like you were starting to get congested. But when the anesthesiologist examined you, she said your lungs sounded completely clear. Even though your dad mentioned the cough and the sniffles, she reassured us that it’s rare to find a child who isn’t battling some kind of cold or allergy. The important thing, she explained, was that you weren’t heavily congested, and in her assessment, you weren’t. If, during surgery, they found too much mucus while working on your adenoids, they’d pause and reassess, but she didn’t think it would come to that. She was older, kind, and seemed incredibly experienced, which put me at ease. And honestly, I felt very calm that day. I had a good feeling, I wasn’t anxious or nervous. I was steady. I just knew everything was going to be fine. Of course, with all the doctors coming in to check vitals, explain procedures, and ask questions, you started to feel uneasy and got a little teary, but nothing too dramatic. I was relieved when the anesthesiologist said a nurse would soon bring a pre-anesthetic syrup. Once you took it, she explained, you’d start to feel a bit drowsy or giggly, some kids get the giggles, others go limp, and some just stare off into space. She told me it was perfectly safe to hold you in my lap during that time. Then, after the syrup kicked in, they’d bring a tablet playing cartoons to keep you calm on the way to the OR. Once inside, they’d use a mask for the general anesthesia, and only after you were completely asleep would they insert the IV. I almost cried with relief when she said that. My biggest fear was exactly that moment—imagining you awake, scared, being held down while they inserted the IV. We remembered how, at Sabará, it took four people to hold you still. You’re strong and fierce every nurse and doctor says so—and they’re definitely comparing you to other kids. I was terrified it would happen again. So knowing you’d be calm and asleep before anything like that happened was a huge comfort.

Honestly, if this hospital performed more than just ENT surgeries, I’d choose it every time for their care, gentleness, and thoughtful approach. Eventually, the syrup arrived and you took it, but at first, it didn’t seem to change anything.

A bit later, a doctor came in and explained that the procedure would last about an hour and a half, and you’d stay in the recovery room for another 40 minutes afterward. If you woke up crying or panicked, they’d call one of us in to be with you, and I was pretty sure they would call. I couldn’t imagine you waking up with a sore throat and nose, disoriented, and just staying calm.

Then they brought the tablet. You grabbed it happily, and to my surprise, you even sat calmly on the stretcher while holding my hand. You already seemed a little loopy—your gaze distant, barely able to hold the tablet properly—which made both Mommy and Daddy laugh as we rode up in the elevator.

When the time came to say goodbye, you were so focused on the cartoon you barely noticed. I don’t know if you started crying as you saw me stay behind—maybe you did—but we had to let you go. Your dad had a hard time letting go of your hand. He held on as long as he could. Understandable, but the doctor was waiting.

Back in the room, he turned to me and said, “Can you imagine if that was the last time we saw our daughter?” I immediately told him to knock on wood and not speak such nonsense. This was a routine procedure. It never even crossed my mind that something could go wrong. Honestly, I felt more fear during your NICU stays than I did for this surgery.

Your dad let me have the bed and curled up in the chairs, and we managed to rest a bit. Then the phone rang with good news. The surgery had gone well, and you were in recovery. If they needed one of us, they’d call again. Otherwise, it meant you’d be back in the room with us soon.

I went back to the bed I’d been trying to sleep in, hoping to rest a little more, we’d barely slept the night before. I can’t say for sure if it was shortly after or much later, but the phone rang again. They were calling me to go upstairs and get you. I think it must’ve been soon after because, knowing you, you were probably already crying a lot. I rushed to the elevator, heart pounding. As it climbed, I could already hear your cries echoing from the upper floor. When I rang the surgical center's bell and the doors opened, there you were—curled in the arms of a nurse, squirming and sobbing desperately, arms outstretched toward me. The moment I held you, you clung to me like your life depended on it. I kissed your face over and over, trying to soothe your sobs. You must’ve woken up scared, in pain, alone, and completely confused about what was happening.

What concerned me most was how pale you looked and the way you were coughing. You stuck your little tongue out as you coughed, like a kitten trying to catch its breath, something I’d never seen you do before. It made me nervous. And then there was that smell, the sterile scent of hospitals and surgeries. There’s no way to describe it properly; you just have to smell it to understand.

It took a while, but eventually you calmed down and drifted back to sleep in my arms. Your dad had to leave around 2 p.m., and your grandma came to help me. You kept waking up in short spells, crying a little before falling asleep again. At first, I couldn’t even step away from your bedside, you’d wake up the second I moved and beg me, all sweet and teary-eyed, to lie down with you. Of course I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom, because you didn’t want me out of your sight for a second. Once your grandma arrived, I was finally able to order some food. I got a risotto from a nearby restaurant—the hospital was in a central area, so I had plenty of options and I ordered two cookies I’d been wanting to try for ages. They delivered with a super low delivery fee, and honestly, they were divine. The Kinder Bueno one and the Red Velvet were both incredible. I had no choice but to order food. The hospital meals, at least for the accompanying adult, were terrible. That’s one thing I’ll never complain about at Sabará, the food there was always delicious, with three menu options for lunch and dinner, and every meal was well-prepared. But here? Awful. I thought maybe I was being picky, but even your dad, when he tried the chicken I didn’t want, said it was worse than airplane food. Such a shame for a hospital that did so well in every other area, the food was a complete letdown. As for your own meal, well, you didn’t even want to look at food, which is understandable. You’d just had throat surgery. We only managed to get you to sip a little milk later that afternoon. The doctor said it was best to eat in small amounts throughout the day, always at room temperature or cold, to help with healing. Your lips were swollen when I first held you, something else that worried me. It was from the intubation, a normal effect of general anesthesia. Still, seeing your tiny mouth all puffed up made my heart ache. They had to insert a breathing tube, and your little mouth is so small, of course it would leave a mark.

My mom didn’t stay long because by 4 p.m., we were discharged. Later on, I noticed your hands—one of them had the catheter secured with a thick bandage, much better than the way they did it at Sabará. But the other hand had a bruised vein, meaning they had tried and failed to find a good vein. I was just grateful you’d been unconscious when it happened. You didn’t feel a thing. You're so tiny, so delicate, and already going through surgery. I’ve had my tonsils and septum removed too, both at once, and yea, it was rough. But not the nightmare everyone makes it out to be. They say it’s much worse for adults, but honestly? My wisdom teeth surgery was far worse. I think I already mentioned that in earlier chapters—how one dentist removed the wrong tooth the first time, and the second one pierced my nerve. After we were discharged, we were surprised by how much you slept. You barely opened your eyes. But the ride home… that was another story. What had taken 30 min in the morning turned into a 2-hour ordeal in the evening, thanks to rush hour and earlier rain. It was hell. It honestly felt like we could’ve driven from São Paulo to Caraguatatuba in the time it took us to go 15 kilometers. Two and a half hours. I really hate this city sometimes. Thankfully, you slept through the whole thing, still under the effects of the anesthesia. We stopped at the apartment to wait for your grandpa to finish up some work. While we were there, your dad came by to visit. You weren’t in the mood for small talk, you were grumpy, in pain, and just wanted to watch cartoons, so that’s exactly what we let you do. Despite everything, you weren’t crying from the pain. You were just cranky. I bought you strawberry and cream Italian ice cream. At first, you resisted it, but eventually you gave in and ended up enjoying it.

When we finally made it to your grandparents’ house, my mom commented on how well you were handling everything. But the night told a different story. As the anesthesia wore off, the pain came crashing in. It was a brutal night. None of us slept. You screamed in pain and was hitting yourself in the nose over and over. Nothing comforted you. You didn’t want your pacifier because your mouth was too sore, you didn’t want to watch cartoons, didn’t want to be held, didn’t want to be left alone. You just wanted to cry. And we were helpless, because your pain meds could only be given every 3 hr. We were stuck watching you suffer. You hadn’t felt any pain during the day because of the lingering effects of the anesthesia. But now that it had worn off, the pain came roaring in.

You’re on antibiotics again, of course. Most surgeries require them. I swear, I never want to see another antibiotic in my life. If we added up all the days you’ve been on them recently, it’s been over a month.

Your dad nearly lost it when he heard you'd need another round. But there’s nothing we can do. Even for wisdom tooth surgery, they prescribe antibiotics.

06/06 Chapter 410: Reality chasing dreams

Despite the rough night, you woke up as if it had never happened—happy, chatty, and full of energy. It truly felt like a miracle.

The first thing you wanted was to watch cartoons with Grandpa, and off you went, hand in hand, down the stairs with him.

Later, we figured out why you didn’t want your pacifier during the night because your mouth had tiny sores, probably from the intubation. My dad said maybe it’s a good time to try weaning you off it. And honestly, why not?

Lately, you’ve been obsessed with Cinderella. She’s your favorite princess—just like she was mine. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. You keep asking to watch YouTube clips of her best moments—your favorites are when she loses the glass slipper on the stairs, and when she pulls the other slipper from her pocket and everyone realizes she’s the one.

You also love Moana and Elsa, and recently found a six-minute video showing all the Disney princesses together. You’ve watched those six minutes hundreds of times. You’re completely enchanted.

Sometimes I tease you, saying I’m Cinderella and you’re Pocahontas—and you protest in tears, shouting, “No! I’m Cinderella!” It’s the cutest thing.

I always dreamed of having a little girl to watch Disney movies with, someone who’d fall in love with the princesses just like I did. I’ve always been a dreamer, and Disney had a lot to do with that. Those stories, especially the princess ones, shaped how I saw love, fairytales, and happy endings. But there’s a danger in that too, because real life doesn’t play by fairytale rules.

Fairytales teach us that the world is magical, that good always wins, and that kindness and dreaming are enough to make everything turn out right. For a long time, I believed that. And maybe that belief protected me for a while… but it also left me unprepared.

The real world isn’t always fair. Sometimes good people suffer, and those who hurt others get ahead. Pain comes without warning, and happy endings don’t always arrive.

It’s hard to tell you this, especially while your view of the world is still so pure. But I have to, because I love you. Believing that life is always magical and just can leave you defenseless. And when that bubble bursts—as it always does—the shock can be heartbreaking. It feels like betrayal. Like the world lied.

Dreaming is beautiful. Light. Magical. And I want you to keep dreaming. I want you to believe in goodness, in magic, in happy endings. But I also want you to know something I learned the hard way: life doesn’t follow the fairytale script. Sometimes the prince doesn’t come. Sometimes he comes but doesn’t stay. Sometimes he’s not that charming after all. Sometimes the castle turns into routine, the glass slipper hurts, and “happily ever after” doesn’t last as long as we’d hoped. That hurts—because the higher we dream, the harder the fall. Reality chases and crushes dreams—without mercy, without warning, without grace.

But that doesn’t mean you should stop dreaming. It just means you need to dream with your feet on the ground. To know you are already whole. That anyone who comes along is there to walk beside you, not to complete you.

With time, you’ll learn it’s possible to live in both worlds—the real and the imagined. You can carry your dreams in your pocket like Cinderella’s glass slipper, but walk with strength and clarity. You can be sweet, but not naive. Loving, but never submissive. Trusting, but never blind.

And even when the world feels dark, remember: you can be the light. That light comes from the love you receive—but even more, from the love you learn to give yourself.

Always dream. But love yourself more than any made-up happy ending. Because the most beautiful ending is the one you create—day by day—with courage, with choice, and with truth.

I love you more than all the fairytales combined.

Mom.

07/06 Chapter 411: How did love slip away?

You just keep getting better. This morning at breakfast, you asked Grandpa for the soft center of the bread and kept snooping around the pantry—clear signs that your appetite is coming back. You actually managed to eat the bread, which was such a good sign. Every day, you seem a little stronger.

And guess what? Your second night without a pacifier. I can hardly believe it. Could it really be this easy? It almost feels too good to be true.

Your dad surprised me today—he said he wanted to spend the afternoon with you at my parents’ house. So I picked him up, and we agreed that if he didn’t want to stay overnight, he’d head back with my car, and then on Sunday or Monday, your grandma would take us home in hers. But the afternoon went so smoothly, and you had so much fun with him, that by evening you were completely worn out. You fell asleep in an instant, and your dad ended up staying.

My mom and I even convinced him to watch a movie with us—White Bird, a story set during the Nazi era. We’re all drawn to films like that.

Your grandpa didn’t join us, he was exhausted and ended up napping next to you. And in the end, it was just me and, surprisingly, my mom who watched the whole thing. Your dad fell asleep halfway through. My mom, who usually dozes off during anything longer than a commercial break, actually stayed awake this time.

The movie itself, though slow-paced, was truly beautiful. It reminded me of Schindler’s List—a black-and-white film, slow-paced too, but by the second half, every minute becomes worth it. This one felt the same.

Any film that portrays the horrors of Nazism between 1939 and 1945 always hits me deeply. It stirs something in my chest and brings me to tears.

I’ve never fully understood the ongoing historical conflict between Israel and Iraq, or Iran, for that matter. Honestly, I’m no expert, it’s not something I know in depth. But even with my limited understanding, one thing is clear: nothing, absolutely nothing, justifies war. Nothing justifies the violence and slaughter both sides have inflicted on one another.

The same goes for Nazi Germany. I don’t fully understand why Hitler and so much of Germany at the time harbored such hatred for the Jews. But I do know that there is no possible justification for what they did to innocent people. To children. To the elderly. To babies.

How did love slip away like that?

I know love is something the world has always lacked, and still does. But how did it come to this? How could seemingly normal people—people who lived ordinary lives—begin to hunt Jews like animals and have the coldness to burn them alive?

We’re talking about human beings.

How did it happen? How did they lose touch so completely with their own humanity? It's terrifying to realize how easily love can vanish when fear, ignorance, and power take its place. And what breaks my heart the most is that we keep repeating it. In different ways, with different names, different enemies, but always the same underlying disease: the absence of love. The refusal to care. The unwillingness to see value in lives that don't look like ours, speak like ours, or pray like we do.

We build walls instead of bridges. We teach children to be proud of flags, but not of compassion. We learn to win arguments instead of listening to pain. And then we wonder why history repeats itself. Love is not just a soft, poetic word. It’s a force that protects. That resists hate. That says no when injustice knocks on the door. And without it, we become lost—again and again.

That’s why I look at you, my child, and I hope. I hope you’ll grow up to be kind. To be brave. To be someone who chooses love, even when the world tells you it’s naïve. Because if more people had chosen love back then, maybe things would’ve been different.

And maybe, if more of us choose it now, we can stop it from ever happening again.

10/06 Chapter 412: The Innocent Can Never Last

Today we went to the doctor, and he officially gave you the all-clear to return to your normal routine, including school. He was genuinely surprised at how quickly your throat healed.

On the way home, I stopped by one of my favorite sweet shops, Pikurruchas. You picked out a brigadeiro, and I grabbed a few treats for myself. I watched you sitting in the armchair, carefully eating your chocolate, looking so grown up. There we were, out together on a weekday afternoon. It hit me that not long ago, you couldn’t even walk—you spent most of your time nestled in my arms. And now? Not only are you walking, you're holding my hand as we go places together. My little sidekick.

During the drive back, I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and an ache settled in my chest. It's been four days since you stopped using your pacifier, and it seems like we’ve truly said goodbye to it. It happened more smoothly than I expected—maybe the surgery played a part. You had mouth sores, and the moment you tried to suck on the pacifier, it hurt. You began to associate it with pain, and from there, slowly let it go.

I had been so anxious about this moment, afraid you’d struggle like I did when mine was taken away. But instead, it just… happened. And while that brings relief and joy, it also brings this bittersweet sadness. Because it means you're no longer my baby. You’ve grown into a little girl. It breaks my heart a little knowing I’ll never again see you searching for your pacifier before bed, pouting and teary-eyed as you asked for it. I’ll never again see your sweet face partially hidden behind it, that unmistakable image of a baby. And just knowing I’ll never see that again stirs something deep inside me.

Watching your child grow is one of life’s greatest joys. Every little milestone, every new phase is a wonder. But it also comes with tiny heartbreaks. Crawling turns to walking. Bottles are replaced with little cups. Diapers give way to underwear. And while I love seeing you grow and blossom, I secretly hope—just a little—that you'll always be my baby.

But time doesn’t wait. Childhood slips quietly through our fingers, no matter how tightly we try to hold on. One day it's pacifiers and soft lullabies… and then suddenly, it's backpacks and big questions about the world. And the innocence—the pure, unfiltered magic of those early years—begins to fade.

I know that’s how it’s meant to be. That nothing stays small and untouched forever. But still, I wish I could freeze time just for a little while longer. Just long enough to memorize every part of you exactly as you are now.

Because the innocent can never last.

But oh, how beautiful it is while it does.

12/06 Chapter 413: If Only For a Night

Tonight was special. Here in Brazil, Valentine’s Day is celebrated on June 12th, and since your dad and I are no longer together, we decided to do something the three of us—just as we are now.

To my surprise, your dad really made an effort. Whatever missteps he made on Mother’s Day were completely redeemed tonight. He showed up around 7 p.m., holding a flower for me and another for you. And he brought you a heart-shaped balloon, which you clung to like it was treasure.

Then came something even more unexpected: he drove (a small miracle!) and took us to a restaurant he had chosen himself. Not one of those usual, familiar spots we’re so used to—this place was different, a little more refined. It felt like a special outing. He even mentioned that it reminded him of the kind of places he used to go to with his parents back in his hometown.

We had to wait about 20 minutes for a table, but once inside, the atmosphere was warm and welcoming. The dishes were beautifully presented and looked absolutely delicious. We ordered some fries for you, but the real star of the evening was an incredible fried cheese with bacon and onions—rich, savory, and satisfying. It was so good I didn’t even bother ordering a main course after that.

Your dad ordered a steak, which the two of you enjoyed together. I passed—rare meat isn’t really my thing. And to finish, we shared a dessert: the best alfajor I think I’ve ever had. Soft, sweet, and just perfect.

The bill came to a little over R$300, and to my surprise, your dad paid for everything. He joked that I was probably expecting him to—but I swear I wasn’t.

It was a different kind of night. No arguments, no awkwardness, no tension. Just peace, laughter, and a quiet kind of joy. It wasn’t about romance, or grand declarations—it was something simpler, but maybe even more meaningful.

It was… wonderful.