To my daughter Melanie (February 2026)

 02-05/02 Chapter 503 Something I've Done That I Can't Outrun

You’re much better now, thank God, and so am I. I’m still left with this annoying trace of a cough, though. I don’t remember ever taking this long to recover from the flu.

The week itself was calm, blessedly so. A steady routine, the kind I love. You went to swimming lessons twice this week and you’re really enjoying it. The last time, though, there was a different instructor, and that made you a little hesitant at first. She was stricter than the one you were used to—not as warm or affectionate—but she taught you some important things in the water, and in the end, everything was fine. Before your class, while your dad still hadn’t arrived, I bought a chocolate cake they were selling at the gym, and we shared it together, just the two of us, savoring that little moment before you got in the pool.

This week I only went to the store once, so my aunt could go to her physical therapy. And guess what? That was the day I got scammed. I was robbed, not at gunpoint, but robbed nonetheless.

I was at the store when a woman came in and started browsing. After a while, I got up and asked if it was her first time there. She said no, that she had already bought things there twice. I assumed it must have been with Rosely, and that made me oddly happy because I thought a sale was coming.

She started setting some pieces aside, but in a strange, random way. At one point, she even swapped a boys’ youth piece for a girls’ one, saying it was larger though they weren’t even the same category. In the end, she chose three or four items that totaled R$65. She even commented, “Wow, that’s quite a bit.” Wanting to secure the sale, I offered to round it down to R$60, and she immediately agreed.

She handed me a R$200 bill.

I’ve probably held a R$200 bill once in my life. I’m naïve when it comes to these things, a little too trusting. I swear the thought crossed my mind—what if it’s fake?—but I brushed it aside and started looking for change. The register only had R$70. I needed another R$70 and I happened to have exactly that amount in my backpack. Exact change. I gave her the money from my own pocket, planning to reimburse myself once more cash came into the store.

The next day, my aunt messaged me saying she thought the bill might be fake. But my aunt is an ambulant exaggeration—dramatic, hyperbolic—so I didn’t take it too seriously. Then she told me my uncle had stopped by the store, also found the bill suspicious, and took it to the bank to check.

When I arrived, he had already been there. The money was returned. It was fake.

My aunt was furious, not at me, of course, but because the store had essentially been robbed, and it had happened on the exact day and time I was there. She said that if it had been her, she wouldn’t have fallen for it, she had sensed something was off from the start. So yes, it was incredibly bad luck that this scammer showed up on the one single shift I covered. What can you do?

I was upset too, but I refused to let it ruin me. I lost R$200 and a few pieces, but I wasn’t about to let a dishonest person turn my day into hell or steal my peace. I wasn’t going to donate my emotions or my time to someone like that. Thank God I work hard. Money can be recovered.

Still, of course it’s frustrating. I work hard to build what we have. I give up time—time I could be playing with you, enjoying life to work and make things happen. And then someone comes along and takes what’s ours. That’s infuriating.

But I made a promise beside your ICU bed: if you came out alive, I would never again lose my mind over money. And I’ve kept that promise. Not because I force myself to but because something genuinely changed inside me. I simply don’t spiral anymore. This would have ruined my entire day before, just as it did hers. But not now.

Within a day, I recovered what we had lost and reimbursed the store’s cash so my aunt wouldn’t take the hit. She spends hours sitting in that chair, selling a handful of pieces. What was stolen represented one or two full days of her work. It wasn’t fair to her. But I fixed it.

The truth is, there’s something in life people call karma. I don’t really believe in karma but sometimes things happen that feel like it, even if they’re just coincidences.

I’m going to tell you something now that I’ve never told anyone. Not my parents. Not your father. You’ll be the only one who knows.

I’ve stolen before.

I was about eight years old. I learned to read very early—around five—and I’ve always loved reading. That love began with Turma da Mônica comics. I adored them. When we traveled to Caraguatatuba, my mom would buy several for me to read. Back then, money wasn’t like it is today, and comics were expensive. When she bought new ones, it felt like a gift.

Today, kids can read endlessly—comics are cheap, online, everywhere. We spend fortunes trying to pull children away from screens with books. But back then, it wasn’t like that.

I devoured comics. My mom would tell me to slow down, to savor them, because that was all I had. But when you love a story, reading slowly feels impossible.

There was a shop in São Paulo that exchanged comics. For every thirty you brought in, you could choose ten new ones. One day, while my mom was trading them, I slipped an extra new comic from the collection and hid it under my clothes.

I don’t know how she sensed it, but she did. In the car, she asked, very seriously,
“Natascha, how many comics do you have there?”

I counted one less. She let it go. I remember the adrenaline, the fear of being caught, punished, grounded. I remember it vividly. It wasn’t good. I shouldn’t have done it.

But it didn’t end there.

Years later, when I started traveling to the U.S. to resell items in Brazil, I did it again, once in a while. At Walmart. At outlets. Once, at a Tommy Hilfiger store, the alarm went off and I walked out fast, sweating, heart racing.

I didn’t need to do that. Why was I doing it?

That scare was enough to make me swear I’d never do it again. Being caught in a foreign country? Deported? Never being allowed back into a place I loved? Over something so stupid? The shame alone would’ve destroyed me.

Then came 2018, when I moved to San Diego. I promised myself I wouldn’t ask my parents for money. I would work. I would survive on my own. I had chosen to be there. It felt fair.

But San Diego is brutally expensive. Rent, food, gas, the car, sometimes the money simply didn’t add up. And when something had to give, it was food. I rationed it.

I worked at the Marriott, and my boss was kind enough to let me eat the leftovers from breakfast. At first, it was great. Eventually, surviving on waffles and hamburger patties turned my stomach.

Things improved when I got a second nanny job. The mother let me eat dinner with the kids, and that helped immensely. But with the first family, I wasn’t allowed to eat anything. And when the money ran out, I went back to stealing food, leaving items unscanned at self-checkout.

I told myself it was “necessity.” It wasn’t.

Since when is stealing more justifiable than swallowing your pride and asking your parents for help? My father would much rather send me money for groceries than know his daughter was stealing food. He would have been deeply disappointed. Honesty, especially with money, has always been one of his strongest values.

One day, I stopped myself. I drew a hard line. Enough. No excuse made it right. I quit. Completely. I never did it again. And if I could, I would return every single item I took.

I knew it was wrong. I worked on myself because I knew I was becoming a worse person each time. Today, I wouldn’t take a piece of candy that wasn’t mine.

I regret it deeply.

So how could I crucify the woman who did the same to me? She used a few items as camouflage to take real money from me. I don’t know what was going through her mind and I don’t need to know. She stole from me. But I’ve stolen from others too. Even if most were large companies, it doesn’t justify it. And what about the comic shop owner?

So yes, this time, life paid me back in the same currency.

Call it karma. Call it coincidence. But it didn’t feel right to rage over something I once did myself.

All I hope is that she evolves. That one day she realizes what she did was wrong and chooses to change. That’s all we can hope for.

The real problem is people who do wrong things and don’t believe they’re wrong at all.

I hope you never do what I did. But you will make mistakes. What matters is recognizing them and choosing to grow.

Growth is always the answer.

 07/02 Chapter 504 The Hero Dies In This One

Today I cried for someone I never met. A stranger.

For the past week I’ve been following the case of Pedro Turra and Rodrigo Castanheira. I usually avoid the news as much as I possibly can. Most of it is tragedy, and if I’m being honest, it corrodes me from the inside out. I’ve told you before, I’m a sponge. I absorb everything around me. I have never handled sad stories well. They stay with me for days. So I protect myself.

But sometimes protection isn’t possible. To send contracts for clients, I have to log into your grandfather’s email, and the homepage is also a news portal. Even if I try not to look, headlines flash across the screen. Sometimes curiosity wins. Sometimes something goes viral and suddenly the entire country is talking about it. And then you know, whether you want to or not.

Last week it was the case of a stray dog named Orelha. An elderly street dog in the south of the country, cared for by the community — fed, given water, treated like a shared responsibility. And then five wealthy teenage boys decided their idea of fun was to torture and kill him. The cruelty was so senseless, so deliberate, that it shocked everyone. Some of the parents tried to intimidate witnesses, to shield their sons. It doesn’t excuse anything, but it does make you wonder how monsters are formed.

That case united people in a way I haven’t seen in years. Right and left, conservative and progressive, everyone wanted justice. Even those who usually argue against vengeance were demanding consequences.

When something reaches that level of outrage, it becomes impossible to ignore.

But the case that truly broke me this week wasn’t Orelha’s.

It was Rodrigo’s.

On January 23rd, Rodrigo, 16 years old, got into an argument with Pedro, 19. It began with something stupid: a piece of gum thrown at a friend. Words escalated. Pedro reacted with aggression. He punched Rodrigo repeatedly. One of those punches caused Rodrigo to hit his head against a car door. There’s a video. I didn’t watch it. I won’t.

I don’t understand how people can watch real suffering for entertainment. This isn’t fiction. It isn’t actors. It’s someone’s son, someone’s body, someone’s pain, and there’s nothing you can do to help through a screen. I have always had an aversion to that kind of exposure. It frightens me.

Rodrigo called his father afterward, saying his head hurt and he wanted to go to the hospital. Soon he began vomiting blood. He was diagnosed with severe brain trauma, underwent emergency surgery, and was placed in an induced coma.

Sixteen days in the ICU.

Pedro was arrested but released on bail. He, too, comes from a wealthy family. And yes, stories like this make people resent wealth. But labeling every rich person as immoral is no different than labeling every poor person a criminal. Human character doesn’t belong to a social class.

Still, as more details emerged, witnesses described Pedro as aggressive, entitled, unable to handle being told “no.” Other incidents surfaced. Fights. Violence. Recklessness. A pattern.

Sixteen days later, Rodrigo died.

I had been hoping he would survive.

He had parents. A sister. A life that was just beginning.

When I read the news, I cried.

Not only for him, but for his family.

What gripped me wasn’t just the violence. It was the waiting. Sixteen days of uncertainty. Praying. Bargaining. Watching monitors. Not knowing if your child will leave the hospital alive.

I have sat in an ICU with you. Nineteen days across three hospitalizations. Twice doctors told us your condition was serious. I remember the helplessness. The silence. The horror of imagining life without you.

You never had to be intubated, thank God. You were close, but you didn’t cross that line. Rodrigo did.

I know what it feels like to sit beside your child and not know what tomorrow holds. I know the anguish of uncertainty.

What I don’t know is the final stage, the loss. The burial. The silence in a bedroom that will never be used again.

Only those who have lost a child understand that.

But when one mother loses a son, something in all of us trembles.

I cried for the absurdity of it. For the stupidity of a fight over nothing. For how quickly a family’s entire universe can collapse. Christmas and New Year’s celebrated together — and less than a month later, a funeral.

One day you have everything. The next day, you have nothing.

There were vigils outside the hospital. Candles. Strangers praying together. It restored a sliver of faith in humanity.

Even the detective handling the case broke down during a press interview. He said he’s tired of seeing so much violence. He said he’s a father too.

I don’t believe Pedro intended to kill him. I believe he intended to win another fight, to show off strength, dominance. But when you play with violence, eventually violence answers back.

Now the legal charge changes. Now consequences are heavier. And perhaps not even wealth can erase what has happened.

I held you tighter tonight while you slept.

I whispered to the universe to protect you if one day I cannot.

Because that is the unbearable truth of being a mother — we raise our children with love, sacrifice, sleepless nights, first steps, first words… and then the world exists. And the world is unpredictable.

So, my daughter, avoid confrontation whenever you can. Even when adrenaline rises. Even when pride speaks louder than reason.

You never know when you might cross paths with someone who carries fire in their hands.

And sometimes, one moment is all it takes to change everything.

To my daughter Melanie (January 2026)

 01/01 Chapter 490 It's time to celebrate

New Year’s felt different this time. For the first time, it was just me and my parents. And of course, you and Rafinha too. Everything felt quiet, gentle, unhurried.

I’ve never really liked New Year’s Eve. I can never seem to find a place I truly want to be. The only one I remember enjoying was the year I spent it with Caique, who was my boyfriend at the time. All the others were… forgettable. But this one, with my parents, felt peaceful in a way I didn’t know I needed.

The original plan was for just you and me to stay at the apartment. I’d buy balloons, we’d curl up together and watch Disney movies. My mom wanted to go to Caraguá, and I’ve already decided I will never spend New Year’s at the beach again. But as always, my momr thought more about her daughters than herself. She felt bad about leaving me behind. She said she was giving up the trip because your grandfather wouldn’t sleep in that heat without air conditioning, but I know her. She stayed because she didn’t want to leave me alone.

She cooked one of those dinners that feel like love on a plate: her perfect bacon farofa, roasted chester, and that almond rice I adore. But she insisted we wait until after midnight to eat.

In return, I got the usual beach gossip from your great-grandfather Wilson’s house and, as always, Débora was at the center of the drama.

They had invited Ane’s family — who live in the back house there in Caraguá — to have dinner and celebrate together. That was the plan. But Débora and Junior, who have recently become obsessed with clean eating and rigid routines, wanted to eat at 10 p.m. instead of after midnight, claiming it was because of the children. Except… Cauã is over 8 and Marina is already 15. They’re not toddlers. At that age, your aunt and I were spending Christmas in that crowded family I once told you about, eating at four in the morning and surviving just fine. People have become overly precious about everything.

I understand that eating late isn’t healthy. I don’t eat late. You don’t either. But Christmas and New Year’s are the only two nights of the year when a huge portion of people — not everyone, of course, but many — break that rule. Two nights. It won’t hurt you.

My grandparents tried to explain that they had already invited another family and agreed on the time. The children threw a tantrum, saying they wouldn’t eat at all and refusing to eat after midnight.

There was another incident too: Cauã kicked a soccer ball too hard and broke your great-grandfather’s wooden birdhouse. My grandfather scolded him — as his grandfather. Débora immediately got upset and said that if her son couldn’t even have the freedom to play ball outside the house, she would leave.

Let’s be honest: my grandpa is picky about his things. He always has been. But he has always been like that, and the house is his. When a child breaks something even by accident, it is the parent’s responsibility to correct and teach. And when that doesn’t happen, I think it’s completely appropriate for the grandfather to step in. He has authority too. And it was his house. And his property. That’s not abuse. That’s boundaries.

Instead of supporting my grandpa, Débora undermined him and threw a fit, threatening to leave.

There’s something I hope you grow up understanding: when we are guests in someone else’s home, we adapt to their rules and their rhythm, even if it’s uncomfortable. That’s exactly why, in San Diego, I chose not to stay a month in my friend Camila’s house and paid for another place instead. Staying there would have meant changing our sleep schedule, our routine, our freedom. We were the guests. We would have had to adapt. And if we don’t want to adapt, then we choose a different place, like I did.

So if the family dinner happens at midnight once a year, you adapt once a year. Or you celebrate elsewhere and create your own rules. It really is that simple.

My mother wanted to eat at midnight, so that’s what we did. And it was a gentle, peaceful New Year’s. After you fell asleep, your grandparents and I watched The Hangover — a comedy trilogy I absolutely love, because truly good comedies are rare, and this one never fails.

And now… here we are, stepping into 2026. It’s hard to believe you were born in 2022 and now we’re entering 2026. It feels like yesterday.

I remember so clearly: a week after you were born came the election and Lula’s inauguration. I cried, thinking that this man might remain president until 2026 — when you’d be four — and that it felt like an eternity away. And now look: it’s election year again, and you are turning four. Time moved so much faster than I ever imagined.

Do I believe he’ll leave power? Probably not. But honestly, I don’t care anymore. I just want to live well. With you.

So I want to thank you for another New Year together. Another year full of memories, stories, moments. Life is lighter with you. Brighter. You were, without question, my greatest antidote to sadness. Life gained color because of you. I am happy.

My wish for this year is simple: that you won’t be hospitalized again, that we have health, laughter, joy and many more stories for me to write in your diary.

My daughter, I love you.
Happy New Year.

 02/01 Chapter 491 This is going to be fun

Today was the day we went to Parque da Mônica. At first, I wanted to go on the 30th because the park was already open, but my parents suggested going on the 2nd instead — today — thinking it would probably be emptier, since most people travel during January.

In Brazil, January is vacation month. School holidays happen in January and July, so families usually take time off together. The result? São Paulo becomes wonderfully quiet. No traffic, no chaos — just peace. It’s one of the few times of year the city feels light.

The park opened at 11:30 a.m. The plan was to wake up at 9, leave by 10, take you to get your vaccine first (since the clinic closes early on Saturdays), and then go straight to the park. That way, we’d get everything done in one day. But as always, my parents — especially my mother — can’t stick to a schedule. We left after 10:30, which meant it made more sense to move the vaccine appointment to the next day so we could actually enjoy the park, especially considering we’d spent almost R$800 on tickets. The clinic was also completely out of the way.

The drive took about an hour and fifteen minutes, simply because the park is far. It’s inside a mall in Interlagos, and Interlagos is quite distant from where we live.

The old Parque da Mônica used to be in Pinheiros, much closer. And even though I went only a few times and was very little, I still remember it. Especially the giant roller slide — made of small spinning rollers — that moved slowly enough for kids to feel safe. You had to go through it to enter the park, or use a side entrance. I remember the atmosphere, the feeling. It’s funny how memory works. Sometimes we can’t recall what we did last week, yet we clearly remember things from when we were four years old.

I was genuinely excited to go. For adults, a children’s park isn’t exactly thrilling. But watching your child’s face light up — that joy, so pure and effortless — that’s everything. It fills your chest with warmth.

You fell asleep just before we arrived, while Rafinha stayed awake the whole time, even though you both had woken up early. But the moment we got there, you woke up cheerful and eager. You almost never wake up grumpy — usually you jump out of bed excited for a new day, and I love that about you. I hope that light stays with you for a long, long time.

And then we finally arrived. Everyone was happy — especially because your beloved grandpa was coming too, which was a complete surprise to me and my mom. My father was never really into these things. When we were little, he worked a lot, so it was always my mother who took us to parks. Lack of time plus lack of interest doesn’t lead to many childhood outings.

But with you — with his grandchildren — he’s living everything he missed with his daughters. And it’s beautiful to watch. Today, he’s more present, less overwhelmed by work, and he truly enjoys these moments.

And yet, it was his hard work that built the life we have. Honest work, earned without stepping on anyone. That’s the truth of life: if you’re not born into wealth, effort is necessary. Still, seeing him now fully present in your childhood is deeply touching. He may not have had that chance with us, but he was always a wonderful father.

When we arrived, you took photos with the (slightly fake-looking) Monica and Cebolinha characters, and then we went straight to the carousel. You chose the pink whale. Rafinha chose a little car attached to the ground — he was afraid of the higher rides. Actually, he was afraid of most of them. I think he might take after my sister, who never liked amusement park attractions. Hopefully, you’ll take after me and your dad — we love them.

We went from ride to ride, exploring everything. Thanks to your grandpa being over 60, we were able to use the priority line for some attractions. In Brazil, priority lines include pregnant women, autistic people, people with disabilities, elderly, people with infants, and now even breastfeeding mothers. The list keeps growing, but that’s not today’s topic.

One of the best moments was the Splash ride — a water attraction where you get soaked. The regular line was over an hour long, but we entered through priority and waited less than a minute. The four of us went together. It was so much fun. Rafinha got upset because he got wet, but soon forgot about it. He complained the whole way in, scared as usual. You, on the other hand, surprised me by going on almost everything. There was only one ride you gave up on after the attendant told me I couldn’t go with you — you’d have had to go alone, and that made you hesitate. Understandable. But if I could’ve gone with you, I know you would’ve loved it.

Later, I bought you and your cousin a giant lollipop. R$40 for a lollipop — absurd. I bought it because it was a special day. Still, I regretted it. Rafinha lost interest after a few minutes. You lasted longer (you do love sweets), but it was just too big. Most of it went in the trash. A waste of money. But maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll remember that ridiculous lollipop and smile — and maybe that memory will be worth it.

There was also a live show with actors dressed as the characters. You watched for about 15 minutes. I even tried to convince you to leave early because while everyone was watching the show, the ride lines were empty — but you wanted to stay. So we stayed.

By 5 p.m., we headed home. The park closed at 6, but we had done everything and were clearly exhausted. According to Waze, if we had left 15 minutes earlier, we might have made it to the clinic for your vaccine — but we’d still have arrived just after closing. So it stayed scheduled for the next day.

Before entering the park, we stopped at a small convenience shop in the mall selling nuts and healthier snacks. I bought sweet potato chips. And honestly, the highlight of my day was seeing Rafinha eating Ruffles while you happily devoured your sweet potato chips. Oh no… I’m becoming your father. (Just kidding.) But look at that balance: you ate something healthy at an amusement park — and also had a giant lollipop. And that’s life, right? You never eat lollipops, because I don’t allow it. But this was a special day, a children’s park, a rare moment. Once won’t harm you. I just wish your father could see things that way too — I know he wouldn’t love the idea, even if it was occasional.

To finish the day, you went on the bumper cars with your grandpa. At first, he was hesitant — worried it might be dangerous, that you could hurt your neck. But I showed him how many small children were in line, and reminded him that no adult is going to crash aggressively when kids are nearby. He agreed. Rafinha, unsurprisingly, refused to go. So it was just you and your grandpa — laughing, enjoying, sharing that moment. It was beautiful.

We tried to go to Bacio di Latte (my favorite gelato place), but it was too crowded, so we settled for a McDonald’s cone instead. Rafinha usually refuses ice cream, but he tasted yours — vanilla — and liked it. He started eating with you. And I felt so proud watching you share. Sharing has always been one of your biggest challenges.

We went home tired but full. The park is known as the largest indoor amusement park in Latin America, but honestly, I didn’t find it that big. I have the feeling the old Parque da Mônica was much larger. My parents felt the same. But in the end, you had fun. And that’s what matters.

We came home exhausted but happy, because childhood is exactly this: joy, outings, parks, laughter, sweets, jumping, lightness. I hope I can give you a beautiful, magical, joyful childhood — just like the one I had.
I hope you grow up happy.

 03/01 Chapter 492 Hold my hand, we're gonna swim

Today I had planned to meet Cheila (Noah and Sofia’s mom) and my friend Camila here at my parents’ house for a pool afternoon with the kids. We agreed on noon, but of course the girls showed up after 2 p.m. Apparently, it’s not only my parents who struggle with punctuality.

They arrived with the kids and their husbands, and it turned into a really fun afternoon. The only downside was that by the time they got here, you and Rafinha had already been in the pool for over an hour. You were tired, ready to get out, and when the other kids finally jumped in, you didn’t enjoy it as much because you were already done with swimming.

Camila stopped by the market and brought hamburger buns, burgers, and cheese so we could make sandwiches, and Cheila brought the sodas. We split the cost afterward, everything simple and fair.

It was such a pleasant afternoon. We talked a lot, caught up on life. But to my surprise, you didn’t really play with Noah, each of you stayed more in your own little world. Sofia stayed close to Maria Fernanda, since they’re about the same age, and the two of them spent a long time on their phones, just like Noah. So I ended up letting you watch a bit of cartoons on my phone too, even though I don’t love doing that.

Meanwhile, the adults talked and ate and enjoyed the moment.

Lately, our days have been spent almost entirely in the pool. The heat has been unbearable, over 35°C, sometimes reaching 39°C. So every afternoon, there we are, living in the water.

Before my friends arrived, like I had told you, you and Rafinha were already in the pool. We found a pair of arm floaties and tried to put them on you and your cousin. Chaos. One was blue, the other pink, and of course each one was missing its matching pair. As usual, I resorted to my classic mix of threats and emotional bargaining until it worked. At first you cried, but then, when you realized you could float on your own, you started crying and laughing at the same time, completely unsure of which emotion was winning. It was adorable and funny, but I held back my laughter because you hate feeling like someone is laughing at you.

Then I promised I’d buy you princess floaties, and suddenly you were excited and said you would wear them.

And you actually started to like the floaties. You swam back and forth, genuinely enjoying yourself. In a child’s mind, it must feel like magic to float without sinking, so you were completely delighted, even though part of you was still a little annoyed about having been forced to wear them in the first place. After a while, when you asked to take them off, I did.

Rafinha, on the other hand, was impossible. His protest was on another level, so we just let it go.

Still, I felt proud of you for taking that step and ending up liking the floaties. Hopefully, now you’ll feel more confident in pools and enjoy swimming more freely, giving both of you a little more independence.

I stayed in the pool with you the whole time and only got out when my friends arrived, because none of the other adults went in.

But it was another sweet day. And I hope this year brings us many more moments like this and that it will be a beautiful year for all of us.

 04-09/01 Chapter 493 Truth Stings

You went to Caraguatatuba with my parents for a few days, and I used that time to work. It was only two days, but I missed you terribly. Meanwhile, you were having so much fun that you didn’t even have time to miss mommy.

They told me you became very attached to Aunt Rosane — mostly because she bought you three Ariel ice creams. Three. Let’s just hope your dad never finds out. You played a lot with Giovanna too and were super outgoing with everyone, which made me so happy. And of course, you had a blast at the beach with your little cousin. Oh, and by the way — Giovanna and Tayna already made peace, even though they both swore the fight was “forever.”

After that, everyone went to Juquehy and I joined you there to spend a few days together. On the first day we didn’t even go to the beach — we stayed in the pool. And now that you had your princess arm floaties, you were absolutely thrilled. You swam for HOURS. Literally hours. You refused to take them off. You learned to love floating and swimming back and forth, and you stayed in the deep pool the whole time. You completely lost interest in the kiddie pool.

Then you learned how to jump into the water with the floaties too, and you entertained yourself with that for ages. Your cousin, though… no luck. He still hasn’t warmed up to floaties.

My dad bought you a floating unicorn swim shirt and bought your cousin a shark one. Let’s see if he agrees to wear it and slowly gets used to the water. We realized he’s genuinely terrified of drowning. My sister says it’s because he’s had several bad falls into the pool at her house, so of course he developed a fear. I even managed to put the arm floaties on him once and let go for a few seconds — he saw he could float on his own, but he still panicked. I felt bad and picked him up, didn’t push it any further. So now our hope rests on the floating shirts. My dad spent over R$300 on the two of them, so hopefully you both love them.

The next day we enjoyed the beach and stayed there for a long while. We went into the ocean again (I’m really outdoing myself — I don’t think I’ve ever gone into the sea this many times in such a short period). Rafinha swallowed seawater twice. Poor thing. No wonder he’s afraid.

You both happily devoured skewered barbecue — chicken hearts, your favorite. (Gross. I hate them.)

After hours at the beach, you, me, my mom and Rafinha went to the pool while my sister stayed behind with her husband and some friends. One of them was Murilo — Giovanna’s ex-boyfriend. Apparently, my sister didn’t get the message and is still hanging out with her niece’s ex.

When we got to the pool, we spent about an hour there with you until my sister arrived with her friends and joined us. Her plan was to head to Maresias afterward to keep the fun going…

The last time we were at the beach together, she casually told me she thought it was wrong that your dad and I would come back from the beach and take you straight to the shower — that we should feed you first, since kids usually come back hungry. Fair enough, she wasn’t wrong. But she kept going. And going. And eventually I said:
“Tayna, enough. If you’re going to start giving me motherhood lessons, I’ll start pointing out things I don’t agree with either — and you won’t like it.”

That stopped her. She felt comfortable enough to give me feedback, and I accept that — as long as it’s said once, respectfully, and not constantly poking the same wound. A good mind understands a message without needing repetition.

So this time, I also felt entitled to give her some honest feedback. I told her she should cherish her time with her son more, because life passes incredibly fast. That sometimes she could skip a VIP lounge at a club, save the money, and instead invest in family trips — take her son to a farm hotel, spend quality time with him and her husband.

She didn’t like that at all. She got angry and started talking nonstop. When my sister feels attacked — even when she isn’t — she becomes defensive and tries to hurt the other person with words. But I’ve had 32 years of experience with this. It doesn’t affect me anymore. Truly.

The problem was that there was another family at the pool — maybe six people — and as the argument escalated, they heard everything. She said, loudly:
“And you? You think you have morals? You didn’t even give your daughter a proper family. You were abandoned. Stan left you. You’re alone.”

I imagine that sounds shocking to anyone reading this. Especially considering I had simply offered her the same kind of feedback she once gave me — calmly, without aggression — because maturity exists.

She kept talking, bringing up your routine again, saying how in her house her son eats, bathes, does everything properly. And I said:
“Okay. But at least my daughter has a mother.”

That’s when things really hit a nerve.
“Why doesn’t she have a mother?” she asked furiously.

At that point, I mentally closed my ears. I truly didn’t hear another insult. I focused on playing with Rafinha — we were spitting pool water as far as we could — and I tuned everything out. The only thing I heard was her saying she was going to take Rafinha to Maresias.

My mom mentioned there was no car seat. My sister said she’d just hold him because it was close.

That’s where the TOTAL irresponsibility begins. I almost said, “That’s why he doesn’t have a mother,” but I held back. How can someone think it’s okay to hold a child in their arms, with a car full of drunk adults, driving on busy summer roads in January and risking his life like that?

In the end, I told my mom to let her do whatever she wanted. And for the first time, my mom actually said it out loud:
“Do whatever you want, Tayna.”

Of course, she didn’t take Rafinha anywhere. There were already six people in the car — how would another child fit? She likes to be begged, to be validated, to have my mom insist. But when that doesn’t happen, she backs down.

She also said she’d go back to Caraguatatuba afterward, to my grandmother’s house. And I told my mom again: don’t insist, don’t beg, don’t plead. Let her do whatever she wants — I guarantee she won’t go.

And that’s exactly what happened. She didn’t go.

When she returned, she was already speaking to me normally again, so I thought maybe she had absorbed something, maybe she’d reflect on it. A woman can dream, I guess.

Later, we went out for ice cream — because in Juquehy, nighttime ice cream is non-negotiable. It’s become tradition.

And despite everything, those were beautiful days. Days of being with you and your cousin — at the beach, in the pool, at home, playing, laughing, eating ice cream. The kind of days where every single second feels worth living.

 12-13/01 Chapter 494 Do or die you gotta try

You cried a lot when we parked in front of the school because it wasn’t the place you recognized anymore. You’ve moved up to G3 now, and from G3 onward, the children change units. The first building — the one you attended last year — is for babies and children up to three years old. From age three on, they move to the second unit, where they stay until G5. Sadly, once a child turns six, it’s their final year at the school. But that’s simply how early-childhood schools work. I studied in one just like that too.

So I explained to you that the old building was only for babies — and that now you had been promoted to “big girl.” The two units are very close, barely 200 meters apart, but even so, everything felt unfamiliar to you. Which is completely normal. The location changed. The teacher changed. Some little friends didn’t move along with you. Every year, something shifts in the school world.

Later, when Auntie Marili sent me a photo of you playing Barbie with Lívia and told me you were already feeling better, my heart felt lighter. And the next day she sent another picture — you sitting on her lap, watching a little play with the other children.

Now, besides preschool, I’m enrolling you in swimming lessons twice a week and in ballet. You seem excited about both, but ballet especially — you keep practicing tiny steps around the house, already showing off your budding ballerina moves.

This week I opened the shop alone almost every day while Aunt Rosely was away in Caraguatatuba with my mother. Sales were modest, but considering it’s January, I actually did better than I expected.

Still, there was one day that unsettled me.

It started raining hard, and a delivery driver stopped outside to look at an Olaf plush—probably for his child. But along with him, another man walked into the store. He was heavily tattooed, carried himself roughly, and at first glance matched every stereotype I’d learned to be wary of. He said he was only stepping in to escape the rain, but something in me stayed on alert.

When the delivery driver bought the plush and left, I realized I was alone with a stranger, in the middle of a storm, on an empty street.

So I did what instinct told me to do: I became the warmest, kindest version of myself. I smiled. I made conversation. I spoke about life, about kindness, about how important it is to choose good paths. All the while, quietly, I sent your father a message—he was online—explaining where I was and what was happening, just in case. I even managed to discreetly take a few photos.

When the man mentioned he lived in an area known for being dangerous, my unease deepened. But I stayed calm. I offered him a chair. He sat. I kept talking.

Maybe he never meant any harm. Or maybe, somehow, my strategy worked. All I know is that sometimes, as women, we learn to navigate fear not by confrontation, but by intelligence, by instinct, by emotional agility. We learn to survive moments that shouldn’t belong to us.

I only truly relaxed when Jorgian—the delivery driver who works with me—arrived. Shortly after, the man left. I thanked Jorgian, closed the store early, and went home. The rain was still falling, but at least this time, everything had ended safely.

 14/01 Chapter 495 Fighting against all odds

This morning, just as I woke up, I received one of the worst pieces of news I could imagine: the suspension of visas for Brazilians to the United States. At first, the information was unclear. It seemed to apply only to tourist and student visas — meaning that those who already had one wouldn’t be affected, but anyone applying for the first time or trying to renew would be. Since the rumors focused on tourism and study visas, I didn’t panic right away. Still, I went searching for answers.

There were few reliable reports at first, because nothing had yet appeared on the official U.S. government website. But when the confirmation finally came, the news spread quickly across multiple outlets, dominating every headline. And that’s when the truth became clear: it wasn’t about tourist or student visas at all. It was about immigrant visas — visas for those who plan to live and work in the U.S. In other words, it was about my process.

My world collapsed. I didn’t know how to react, what to do, where to begin. The first thing that crossed my mind was my dual citizenship — my Italian passport — and whether it could somehow offer a way around this suspension. With that hope clinging to me, I immediately tried to contact BDV Solutions, the agency handling my EB-3 visa process.

I couldn’t reach them right away — only later that night. And in the meantime, I did what I knew how to do: I suffered. I cried. I called her father. I called my mother and told them the news. I was devastated, unable to believe that this was actually happening. As far as I know, in all of history, immigrant visas to the U.S. have never been suspended for Brazil — and of course this would happen precisely when I’m in the middle of the process.

Lately, I had been thinking a lot about it. The Labor Certification would likely be approved by June or July, which meant we would soon be moving on to the next stage.

I had been waiting patiently for over a year. I wasn’t pressuring the company, I understood that these things take time. I accepted the delays, trusted the process, and simply kept going — quietly hopeful, even happy, because things were moving forward. And then, suddenly, this. A bucket of ice water poured over everything.

I know I cried a lot — even with you right there beside me, while I was telling your father the news over video that night. And the sweetest part of it all was how you kept hugging me, kissing me, telling me not to be sad. It warmed both my heart and his, and somehow made everything feel lighter. It’s incredible how a child’s hug and kiss work like a turbo phone charger — the moment they hold you, your emotional batteries begin to refill.

But all of this feels overwhelming. I’ve been trying to find a legal way to go there for as long as I can remember, and I’ve lost count of how many times that door has slammed in my face. Even when I applied to be an au pair, it fell apart — denied because of “depression,” or a history of it, I don’t even remember anymore. I had another breakdown that day, standing in the subway reading the rejection email. And after that, more no’s, more closed doors, over and over again — while I kept trying, always trying to do everything the right way.

I don’t know how much longer I can endure having that same door shut in my face, reliving the same pain again and again.

Everyone says it’s only a suspension, that things will return to normal soon. But the process is already painfully slow, and the thought of adding more months — or years, who knows — is suffocating.

Your father was being so gentle, saying that in the end everything would work out, that he wished he were here to hold me. Another recharge of energy, just hearing that.

Now Brazil has been listed alongside more than seventy other countries — most of them struggling nations, with fragile economies and difficult living conditions. Seeing Brazil on that list feels humiliating. It only reinforces how far backward we seem to be moving.

One of the reasons cited by the Trump administration was the number of Brazilians who enter on tourist visas and then overstay, breaking the rules and harming those who try to do things properly. And honestly, many people do. But as the BDV Solutions representative said: then why not suspend tourist visas instead? Or make those approvals even stricter? Why target immigrant visas — the ones belonging to people who are actually following every legal step? That’s exactly why their legal team believes this measure won’t hold for long. Weeks, perhaps. A few months at most. We’ll see.

What lifted my spirit was the live session BDV Solutions held the next day. They explained clearly that anyone with dual citizenship would not be affected if their other nationality wasn’t on the list. Which means my process remains intact. They said the visa is only stamped in the passport during the final, consular stage — and at that point, the Italian passport can be used instead of the Brazilian one. That brought back hope. Real relief. Almost joy. And suddenly I felt like I had suffered so deeply the day before for nothing.

But everything pointed to collapse. Sometimes we have to wait for clarity before we let ourselves fall apart. And often, suffering changes nothing at all — it doesn’t alter the outcome of what’s beyond our control. All we can do is search for solutions.

The problem is… searching for solutions to immigrate legally is exactly what I’ve been doing for over a decade. And it’s exhausting.

 17-18/01 Chapter 496 This is Going To Hurt

Today I came to São Paulo to reopen the store and spent the whole afternoon working. When I got home, your grandparents told me you had been stung by a bee.

Your first bee sting, poor thing… they said you made quite a scene. I asked how it happened, because bees usually don’t sting without reason — only when they feel threatened. Apparently, one had landed on the grass and you stepped right on it. I can only imagine the fright you must have felt… and my dad quickly pulled the stinger out of your little foot. Of course you cried a lot — and honestly, who wouldn’t? Bee stings hurt.

So let it be officially recorded: your first bee sting happened at three years old, right on the sole of your foot, while playing barefoot on the grass.

As for me, I was stung three times as a child. I still remember one of them — right on my chin. My grandmother used to say I had “sweet blood” because bees were always hovering around me and I got stung far more than most kids. The bees seemed to adore me.

Recently, after seeing an allergist, I had a blood test that showed I have a mild allergy to bee stings. Actually, lately I seem to be reacting to almost every flying insect. The moment they come near me, my nose starts itching in a way I can’t even properly describe. Bees, flies, gnats — I’ve become extremely sensitive to them.

And lately it’s been completely out of control. I used to have no allergies at all, and now my nose and eyes are constantly itchy, which is why I went to the allergist in the first place.

The test results came back normal, which left the doctor puzzled. So he ordered a more specialized exam — the kind only allergists perform (but unfortunately not at his clinic, so I’ll need to find another place). He said that if everything still comes back negative, then maybe it isn’t an allergy at all, but some kind of contact dermatitis. I highly doubt it. It’s probably just another one of those rare little conditions I seem to collect — the kind even doctors struggle to name.

You also had a blood test when you were about one and a half, and everything came back normal. The doctor suggested repeating it now that you’re over three, but drawing blood from you is always such an ordeal that I’ve been postponing it.

So for now, I’m the only one officially suffering from allergies.

But anyway, my little bee… today you learned to dislike bees.

21/01 Chapter 497 So This Is Love

Today your dad comes home from Europe, yay!
For days I’d been thinking about going to the airport to surprise him, especially because of you. I imagined him walking through the gates and finding you there, and I knew that moment alone would make him incredibly happy. The idea filled me with excitement.

But my mom had been at the beach house, and she was only supposed to return today, Wednesday. I asked if she could come back a little earlier so that by 7:10 p.m. we could already be at the airport waiting for your dad. I needed her help because someone had to stay with the car. And, as always, my mom showed up for us.

She arrived early, and a little after six we left the house. We got to the airport about half an hour before your dad finally came out. My mom stayed in the car while I took you into the arrivals area, where dozens of people were waiting for their loved ones: parents, children, grandparents, nieces, friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, spouses…

It was strange... I’d been to the airport to pick up your dad before, many times. But that day, for the first time, I truly noticed the scene around me.

I saw a young couple, probably in their twenties. He handed her a small gift that, at first glance, looked like a ring, and for a second I wondered if he was proposing. Either way, she looked genuinely happy.
I saw an older woman, maybe in her fifties, crying as she reunited with her family — a kind of emotional, bittersweet cry, full of something deeper than just joy.
I saw a man around 25 or 30 hugging a woman tightly, both of them crying too.

And what struck me most was how people reacted to each other’s emotions — strangers moved by strangers. There was something profoundly empathetic about it. Quiet, human, beautiful.

I also noticed a family who had brought a few tiny puppies to greet two teenage girls who were coming back. The dogs were part of the welcome — tails wagging, tiny bodies bouncing with joy — as if they, too, understood the importance of the moment.

The place was crowded, especially for that time of night. People filled the arrivals area, waiting, watching, hoping. And your dad took what felt like an eternity to appear. Until finally, he walked through the gate.

I couldn’t capture his exact expression at the precise second he saw you. I was too excited, moving the phone, showing you to him, unable to keep my hands steady. But the video still caught what truly mattered — that beautiful moment when he realized you were there. And it moved him deeply.

Because I was so focused on the scene, on holding the phone, on watching the two of you, I didn’t hear the soft “awws” from the people around us. But later he told me many strangers had reacted, touched by what they saw. And only afterward did I notice that the video had captured those sounds too, which somehow made the memory even more special.

He said it was one of the most beautiful surprises he’d ever received. And I felt so happy I had done it. Because the smallest gestures often carry the deepest meaning. And this one — this moment — is now something you and he will carry with you for the rest of your lives.

But even in the middle of such a beautiful, emotional moment, I felt a quiet ache I didn’t expect. You needed your dad completely — all of his attention, all of his presence — and because of that, we barely managed to exchange a full sentence. And somehow, without meaning to, I felt pushed to the side.

That feeling is painfully familiar.
And it’s exhausting.

Not because anyone did anything wrong. But because some emotions live deep inside us, shaped long before we learn how to name them. They resurface in moments like this — quietly, subtly — reminding us of old wounds we thought we had outgrown.

23/01 Chapter 498 Suddenly Is Hard To Breath

Today was chaotic. I had a million things to do and, right at the finish line, I had an anxiety attack — which is rare for me. Time was slipping through my fingers, I couldn’t get things done, and it felt like everything was happening all at once. Your dad tried to calm me down over the phone, but it didn’t really work.

One thing I’ve noticed about the ADHD medication is that it helps a lot with focus and forgetfulness, but it also seems to trigger anxiety, something I didn’t have before. I’m giving it some time to see if my body adjusts. On the first day I felt extremely nauseous and even threw up; the doctor adjusted the dosage, and today I didn’t feel sick at all. So I’m hopeful the anxiety will ease too.

In the middle of all this, a suitcase arrived from the U.S. I was rushing to finish packing orders because the delivery guy was coming to pick them up, but I also couldn’t be late because you had your swimming trial class at 6 p.m. Your dad had already arrived so we could go together, and I still hadn’t finished everything — not to mention all the side issues popping up along the way. I almost lost my mind.

I was shaking, so I asked your dad to drive. He hesitated a bit, but eventually agreed. He really needs to start driving more, taking us places too, not just me doing it all the time.

I tried to breathe deeply during the drive because I was genuinely nervous. I didn’t even get out of the car when we arrived — it was your dad who went in to pick you up. You immediately noticed it wasn’t me, looked around for me, and he pointed toward the car. The moment you saw me, you relaxed.

This new school unit you’re attending is bigger, but I actually liked the old one more. It was ground level — you could walk in, interact with other kids, play a little. This one doesn’t allow that, and honestly… I miss it.

We rushed as fast as we could so you wouldn’t miss your trial class, but we arrived around 6:05. I already knew it would take time to get you changed, registered, everything. To avoid delaying things further, your dad dropped us off at the entrance while he went to park.

When we walked in, the staff said the class had already started, but they were still warming up so we needed to hurry if you were going to join. She had already mentioned that goggles and a swim cap would be provided; we just needed to bring a swimsuit.

I swore you had my old one at home. I had seen it. But when I went to pack your bag, it was nowhere to be found. Nowhere. All I could find were bikinis and I know they don’t allow bikinis for swim class. Still, I brought one. It was all I had.

I explained the situation to the woman, and she gave me that look, the universal “you’ve got to be kidding me” face. Late and no swimsuit. Before she could say no, I quickly asked if they sold one there. Suddenly, she became much friendlier. She ran to get a swimsuit, I didn’t even ask the price (which later became another source of anxiety), and rushed to change you.

You were hesitant at first and didn’t want to go in. I thought it might be hard, but we managed. The swimsuit looked like it might be tight, and I instantly hated myself because the moment you put your foot in it, I ripped off the tag. You hate tags. And then it hit me: If this doesn’t fit, I’m paying for two swimsuits I don’t even know the price of.

But in the end, it was fine. If you end up swimming there, we’d have to buy one anyway, so it worked out. The only thing you absolutely refused was the goggles, and the instructors respected that.

The first teacher who put you in the pool was already very kind, but the second one — the one who stayed with you and another little girl — was exceptional. While you were sitting on the edge of the pool, she started talking to you, and to my joy, you started responding. Talking. Interacting. From there, everything just flowed.

Your dad took a bit longer to arrive, but when he did and you saw him, you were so happy.

The pool wasn’t deep, and the instructor alternated between you and the other gir, exactly like I remembered from my own swimming lessons. Just being there, the smell of the pool took me right back.

I swam for many years. I started very young, around two years old, and then returned when I was twelve, swimming alongside my sister and my best friend at the time — Raquel, who is still one of my closest friends today. We weren’t learning to swim; we already knew how. We were learning more advanced strokes.

That smell, though it’s exactly the same. And it brought back a memory not from when I was two, but from when I was twelve. My mom would take the three of us, and after practice we’d leave starving because swimming makes you hungry and sleepy and we’d always stop to eat a grilled cheese next to the McDonald’s by the gym. Such good times.

You grew more confident as the class went on, but you kept looking back to make sure mom and dad were watching and approving. You always want to show when you’ve learned something new.

Watching you kick your little legs, floating on your back with that tiny swim cap on… it was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. It really looked like you were enjoying it.

The only downside was the length of the class: 50 minutes. But 10 minutes are for warm-up (probably to avoid cramps), and another 10 are for playtime at the end so the actual lesson is 30 minutes. The plan I’m considering is twice a week for R$331 a month. It’s not cheap, but when you divide it by eight classes, it’s about R$42 per class. Seen that way, it doesn’t feel as heavy.

What I really loved is that there’s no fixed schedule. You can take your child twice a week, Monday through Saturday, from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. You just check in online 24 hours in advance and that’s it. This flexibility is amazing. If you’re enrolled for Monday and Wednesday and something happens on Wednesday, you don’t lose the class or the money. You just go another day that same week. I loved that.

Now we wait for my little fish — sorry, my little mermaid — to learn how to swim and ditch the floaties. Your dad and I loved watching you in the water. I’m going to enroll you.

The only thing missing now is ballet, which you’ve been asking for nonstop. But Aunt Marili said ballet only starts in the first week of March, so we’ll have to wait.

So many extracurricular activities, huh?

Such a little lady already. 💙

24/01 Chapter 499 I Still Believe

Today, the plan was for you and your dad to go to the park together after so long, while I rushed off to work and handled my endless to-do list, as usual. But your cold got worse, and you were clearly unwell. The coughing picked up, which always worries both me and your dad. Honestly, it’s almost funny in a tragic way… all it took was your dad arriving.

After a long battle, I finally managed to get you to take a nap. Your dad insisted it was necessary. One thing I find amusing about him, though, is that he asks me to handle things but doesn’t always approve of how I do it. The irony? My methods work.

For example, he suggested I lie down with you and avoid saying we were going to sleep, because the word sleep was upsetting you, which makes sense when you’re sick and overtired. I did exactly that. Twice. For over half an hour. Nothing worked. Then, when my patience was completely gone, I said:
“Melanie, either you go to sleep, or we’ll have to go to the hospital because you’re sick and need rest. Which do you choose?”
That was it. You were asleep in less than ten minutes.

He didn’t like my approach. But it worked.

I’ve talked to him about this before. When it comes to raising you, he and I are different and we need to respect that. I’ll never be him, and he’ll never be me. No two people are the same.

I often think of my friend Nádia. She used to say her father was affectionate and soft, while her mother was the one who disciplined more firmly. Her dad never interfered when her mom did things her way; he simply chose not to do the same and found alternatives that felt right to him. The classic good cop, bad cop. Parents never agree on everything so learning to respect each other’s space is part of the deal. He doesn’t have to like my methods, but he does have to respect them.

Anyway, you fell asleep, and that gave us a moment to talk. To my surprise, he started by saying that during the trip he had time to think about us. He said that if we were ever to try again, we’d both need to sit down and make a list of what we truly want and what we’re not willing to give up in a relationship. And then he said something else— that if we hadn’t really been in love in eight years, it was unlikely that would suddenly change. Could we live with that?

I was stunned. Just a few months ago, he had said he couldn’t see a future for us, couldn’t see a way forward — the same man who made me cry in the car on the way to the beach not long ago, telling me we weren’t together anymore and that I needed to stop planning things. And now, after this trip, he had a change of heart big enough to consider trying again. What had shifted?

We didn’t get to talk much more. But I was already holding onto his leg, feeling something warm and familiar, a sense of peace, and the quiet ache of how much I had missed your dad. For the first time in a while, I felt hopeful about the future. I even found myself praying to a God I’m not sure I believe in, asking that this feeling be nurtured, that it grow, that we might become a family again — that the small flame lit in both our hearts wouldn’t go out.

And then you woke up.

We gathered our things and went to my parents’ house so they could help me take care of you, since you had a fever. Your dad went back to his place. I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay with him. But I knew that baby steps matter — that patience matters — and that sometimes all we can do is take life one day at a time.

So I went. And even then, I felt happy. And hopeful. As if a new life might still be possible.

25-26/01 Chapter 500 The Same Deep Water As You

At my parents’ house today, they helped me take such good care of you. But the next morning, I woke up feeling awful, meaning I had caught your cold.

To my surprise, you spent the entire day perfectly fine, as if you weren’t sick anymore. You ran around nonstop with Rafinha. And there I was, feeling miserable, while you, in your sweetest little voice, kept asking:
“Mommy, are you not feeling well?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“You’re going to get better. You will.”
And then you’d kiss me.

Tell me how anyone is supposed not to melt with a daughter like that.

Even though I felt completely worn out, I was happy to see you improving. That vaccine truly changed your health and, by extension, all of our lives.

Since I was feeling so bad, I lay down in the afternoon and slept for a few hours. But when I woke up, I was still unwell: feverish, achy, exhausted.

I don’t really mind sneezing, coughing, or even having a fever. But there’s one thing that drives me absolutely crazy when I get sick: a sore throat. I hate sore throats. I had my tonsils removed years ago because I constantly had tonsillitis which was pure misery. On top of that, my tonsils used to produce pus frequently — those disgusting, foul-smelling yellow lumps that caused terrible breath. So I didn’t think twice before having surgery.

After that, sore throats became rare. I’ve only had laryngitis or pharyngitis a few times since. Maybe that’s exactly why I hate it so much now because I suffered so deeply before. Every time you swallow, it feels like a sharp stab, or at least an intense discomfort. And you swallow constantly, all day long, minute after minute, trapped in that irritation.

Another thing that really bothers me is congestion, constantly blowing my nose, constantly cleaning it, until it’s red, sore, and raw from too much toilet paper. Even washing with water or using wipes doesn’t help much, because the frequency alone is enough to irritate the skin. Still, that only ranks second. First place will always belong to sore throats.

As for fever itself, I don’t mind it. It makes you tired, weak, heavy and all you want to do is sleep. And honestly, I like sleeping. Maybe that’s why fever doesn’t bother me as much.

But back to the story. Even though you were fine all afternoon, once evening came, you started to feel worse again — irritable, tearful, the fever creeping back. So I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Humberto for the next day.

My mom had planned to go to the beach with my dad and her sister (Aunt Cuca) and stay for a few days. Seeing us like that, she almost canceled to stay and take care of us. But I insisted she go. My dad also needed her help to put up wallpaper he’d bought for the house. They were supposed to leave Monday morning, but she stayed with us during the day and they only left at night.

That afternoon, we went to see Dr. Humberto. She even offered to take you by herself, but I wanted to go too. It had been so long since I’d seen him, and I also wanted to ask for antibiotics for myself because I was feeling much worse than you. My mom thought he would prescribe them anyway if she asked, even without seeing me, but I didn’t want to take the risk.

And so we waited. Two hours in the waiting room. Again. If it weren’t for his terrible scheduling and the absurd delays, he would be the perfect doctor. But he’s so good that we wait. We always do. Still, today was especially hard. I had a fever, felt awful, and standing there felt unbearable. I was exhausted,  all I wanted was to lie down and sleep. In the end, though, it was worth it. We both left with antibiotic prescriptions in hand.

Your grandmother went off to take care of her things before traveling, and your dad came to help in the evening. He played with you for a long time while I managed to sleep for another hour.

I hope tomorrow I’ll feel as good as you do now. Taking care of a sick child is already hard but taking care of a sick child while being sick yourself is even harder. We’re in the same boat, the same situation, both unwell. And I think that’s how it often goes. When a child catches a cold, the mother almost inevitably catches it too.

I have never been as sick in my life as I’ve been since becoming a mother.

27-30/01 Chapter 501 Pretending Everything Is Fine, 'Cause You're Here To Keep Me In Line

These past few days have been especially hard because not only were you sick and home from school, but I was sick too. On Monday, your dad helped a lot. On Tuesday, though, he had a work event he couldn’t miss, so that day I was on my own — sick, but feeling a little better. Today he came by after 7 p.m., which helped somewhat. Still, we ended up clashing.

I noticed something shift the moment he asked about plans for tomorrow and I said you’d be going back to school. He didn’t say anything, but his face closed off, his words grew scarce, and I knew immediately what was bothering him. He always believes that when you get sick, you should stay home for an undefined number of days. Before he could argue, I said that I needed to get back to my own responsibilities too, that for three full days I had taken care of you nonstop, and all my work had come to a halt.

Of course, he felt offended and said he had helped for two days. And he had, but in the evenings, for a few hours. I wasn’t trying to say he hadn’t helped. I was trying to explain that during the day, until he could come, it was me caring for you, and because of that, I couldn’t work.

He didn’t have to say it out loud, but I know what he thinks: because I work from home, because I have that “perk,” my job can be pushed aside. That I can simply take days off, unofficially, to care for you. Since he works mostly in person, his work comes first. But that’s not how things actually work and this is exactly the unspoken bias that so many people who work from home face. Call it prejudice, taboo, whatever you want. It’s as if working remotely is somehow less real, less valuable. And it’s deeply unfair.

When I finally asked why he was upset — even though I already knew — he avoided the subject. He said it was because he had come back from his trip hopeful that we were in a better place, but that day-to-day things made him feel it wouldn’t work, because we do things differently. Instead of admitting it was about school — which he didn’t have the courage to say, likely because he knows it’s not a fair reason — he shifted the focus to the melatonin gummies I give you and the package of soft bread rolls my mom had left here, calling them poison.

I tried to explain. I usually buy milk bread for you, but I hadn’t done the monthly grocery shopping yet. Before going to the beach, my mom left the bread here so it wouldn’t go to waste. And since you’ve been asking for bread lately, that was what I had. It wouldn’t harm you, you eat it occasionally.

I tried to be rational. But when it comes to food, reasoning with your dad is incredibly hard. And it drains me. It leaves me discouraged, hopeless, wondering if this was all just a fleeting moment of optimism, something that won’t last.

I swear I try to balance things with you. And I truly believe we’re doing well. I told him how hurt I felt because on that very same day, you ate rice with broccoli. For the first time, I managed to get you to eat broccoli. The day before, you had eaten green beans, carrots, and peas. Slowly, patiently, you’re starting to accept vegetables. And instead of celebrating a victory that big, he focused on the bread — one step back — and placed it at the center of everything.

He wasn’t nearly as happy about the vegetables as he was angry about the bread. And that hurts.

What makes it harder is that your dad truly believes he’s not extreme, that he’s balanced, somewhere in the middle. But anyone who sees him from the outside disagrees. Anyone except his own family and friends. And that makes everything more complicated.

Tonight, I’m going to sleep sad. But also proud. Proud of the small victories you and I are achieving together, like eating vegetables, like finishing almost an entire serving of broccoli today. These victories are never simple. They take time: conversations, negotiations, tears, surrender, patience, persistence. Things he will never witness, because he isn’t here every night, trying to make them happen.

Still, my conscience is clear. I’m proud of the work I’m doing with you. And at the end of the day even with everything in chaos, even sad, frustrated, sick, I’m okay. Because you’re here beside me, keeping me steady, reminding me day after day that my efforts matter, that my victories are real, and that I am, slowly but surely, getting there.

31/01 Chapter 502 Shining Like The Sun

This weekend, even though your grandparents were away in Juquehy, we went to their house anyway. I needed to work a bit and organize some things, and while I did that, your dad played with you. Being there helps — there’s more space, more options, and you get easily distracted in the best way.

We didn’t stay long, about an hour. I even suggested spending the night, but your dad still has a lot of work to catch up on and knew he wouldn’t manage. The plan was simple: he would stay with you for part of the afternoon so I could work, then we’d head back. I’d stay with you while he went back to his place to work, and later that night he’d return so we could talk.

Originally, the idea was for you to sleep at your grandparents’ house so we could talk more calmly. But since they extended their trip, that wasn’t possible. So the new plan was to put you to sleep first and talk afterward.

But guess what happened? We put you to bed… and the three of us fell asleep together, exhausted, all in the same bed. In the end, we both agreed to leave the conversation for another day.

We were equally tired — no help, lots of work, sick days piling up — and it made me wonder: when you’re that drained, should trying to rebuild a relationship really be a priority? Shouldn’t we push past the exhaustion and want to talk? I don’t know. Is it normal for tiredness to speak louder, or does that say something deeper on its own?

What I do know is that watching you grow is a privilege. Every day, more of your personality unfolds.

Your shyness has improved a little, but you’re still shy in many situations, often putting your finger in your mouth as if to show it. You demand a lot from yourself, and when you can’t do something, you become deeply frustrated, angry, and sad. That worries me. You expect things from yourself that aren’t typical for a child your age. You want to do everything — and you want everyone to see that you can.

When you’re talking to someone and they laugh, you often cry, thinking they’re laughing at you. You get hurt, embarrassed, upset.

You love sweets just like your mom, but lately you eat a wider variety of foods than I do — fish, liver, chicken hearts, salmon.

You slept beautifully until you turned one, but now your sleep is rarely steady. It’s very rare for you to sleep through the night without waking. Not for milk — but because of nightmares, restless sleep. I’ve noticed you sometimes sleep with your eyes not fully closed, and I don’t know if that affects your rest.

You were incredibly easy when it came to letting go of things that are a nightmare for many parents: pacifier, bottle, diapers — everything flowed naturally with you.

You know how to talk, to understand, to negotiate.
You paint carefully, inside the lines, sometimes better than an adult — which still amazes me.
You love games, puzzles lately, Polly, dolls — but you also love watching cartoons. You enjoy TV the way I used to.

You like feeling pretty. Even at this tiny size of a person, you enjoy makeup, painting your nails, having your hair done.
Lately, you’ve been talking a lot about wanting to do ballet.
You’ve already started asking for a little sister.

You’re very sensitive to scolding or correction. Even when we speak calmly and gently, you become deeply sad, upset, almost disappointed in yourself. You apologize constantly, even when there’s no reason — like when you accidentally drop a doll.

There was even a video I recorded recently. I said something to you, and you thought I was angry. I filmed your reaction. You told me that if I got mad, you would go to your room, close the door, and lock yourself in. And you really do that. When you’re scolded, you get sad, go to your room, close the door, and stay there.

Many times, you pick up your toys on your own.
You are understanding.

Over the past few months, you’ve become much more affectionate with your dad, and you love it when we’re all together. Once, when he went out with you, he asked what your favorite things to do were. You answered: playing with mom, painting with dad, and having ice cream at the beach with grandpa. How can anyone not melt?

Your dad also told me that you said I take very good care of you. Oh, my heart.

I have a feeling you’re going to be very intelligent.
You love the beach, but what you really love is playing in the sand.
You’re drinking much less milk now.

And so, with every passing day, you like more things, dislike fewer things, shape your personality more clearly, and grow into an incredible little human being.

We love you.