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.
10/02 Chapter 505 Drawin' The Line
I have wonderful news: we’re going to Disney!
You just turned three, and already this will be your second time visiting the most magical place on earth. What a privilege huh? Of course, the first time hardly counts because you were only six months old, too tiny to enjoy anything or remember a thing. But now… now I think you’re going to love it. Especially because you adore princesses. I can only imagine how happy you’ll be when you see them in real life, and when you lay eyes on Cinderella’s castle for the first time. I can’t wait to watch your reaction, to see your eyes light up. When I told you about the trip, you immediately said you wanted to go dressed as Elsa. It’s going to be beautiful.
I managed to convince your dad to go, mainly because Luciana is the one paying for the flights. She often covers airfare for people to travel there and bring back merchandise for us, and this time she’s doing it for our family too. I also convinced my mom to come along so she could stay with you for a day or two while your dad and I sneak off to a couple of parks on our own — we love roller coasters and thrill rides and had so much fun the last time we went. So Luciana bought tickets for all four of us, which means we’ll be bringing back a lot of suitcases and a lot of merchandise.
But your grandma has a talent for sharing news a little too enthusiastically, and before I knew it she had told half the world. Igor — her nephew, my cousin, your godfather — immediately wanted to come too. I told him there was no way Luciana could pay for five tickets, not to mention the number of suitcases we’d have to fill. We’re already not sure how we’ll manage the luggage we’re bringing as it is. So he decided to buy his own ticket. Just like that, we went from three travelers to five.
And that still wasn’t the end of it. My mom also told my aunt Rosely — the one who opened the shop with me. Rosely loves Orlando, shopping, theme parks… and she hasn’t been in years. She got so excited she said she wanted to come too, that she’d pay her own way, split the hotel, share the rental car — whatever it took. So now we’ve gone from three to six people, because she bought her ticket as well.
Your dad, understandably, looked at me and said, “Wait... I thought this was going to be a family trip. Just us.” And honestly, he’s not wrong. But I tried to explain that they wouldn’t interfere with our plans. We’d all do our own things, meet up when we wanted, and if anything, it might even give us more freedom. Otherwise we’d feel obligated to stay with my mom all the time to keep her company. Now she’ll have her nephew and her sister with her, and we’ll have a little space to explore on our own.
Rosely is a complicated case. She’s very lonely. Your uncle Toninho is actually a nice person, but as a husband he’s difficult. The kind of old-school Italian temperament that can be loud, harsh, even embarrassing in public. He isn’t affectionate, and they only had one child: Leonardo. He’s close to my age, and when we were little we were inseparable, always together, always playing.
But personalities echo through generations, and he inherited a lot from his father. He can be distant, blunt, not especially tender with his mother. And about two years ago he moved to Australia, which completely shook his parents’ world. They had built their whole lives around him, and suddenly he was gone, and they didn’t know what to do with themselves.
Unlike me, Leonardo never had dreams of living abroad. What pushed him there was heartbreak. He’d been with a girl named Andressa for years, and she ended up having an affair with a nurse she worked with. The twist? The man was married. His wife found the messages and called Leonardo herself to tell him everything. After that, well… you can imagine.
I’m not excusing what Andressa did — betrayal is betrayal — but I do find it curious how many times we’ve seen men cheat and be forgiven, while when a woman cheats it’s treated as unforgivable. Two standards, two measures. We still live in a very unequal world. Wrong should be wrong for everyone. But somehow male infidelity has been normalized for so long that people barely question it.
Even my aunt Rosely spent days angrily criticizing Andressa after it all happened, and I had to gently remind her of that contradiction. How many men in our own family had done the same and been forgiven? Including her own husband. It’s complicated. Still, I understand her anger. In her mind, she lost her son to the world because of what happened. And that kind of loss, even when it isn’t literal, still hurts.
To make the story even more tangled, Leonardo only moved to Australia because he started dating a Brazilian girl who already lived there. And guess what? She used to be one of Andressa’s best friends. There were even whispers that this girl, Priscila he’s with now, had once been married and that Andressa had been a bridesmaid at her wedding. People also said Priscila had always been interested in Leonardo, even when he was still with her friend. If that’s true, it says a lot about her character. Personally, I’ve always believed there are too many people in the world to cross certain lines. Dating a friend’s ex is one of them. Still, Andressa wouldn’t exactly have the moral high ground to complain. Either way, it’s no surprise they’re not friends anymore.
And why am I telling you all this?
Because Leonardo has been living there for almost two years now, and this Priscila is described by my aunt and uncle as extremely snobbish. My aunt says that whenever she’s on video calls with him, the girl rarely shows her face, doesn’t greet anyone, and on the few occasions she does, she sounds curt.
The last time Leonardo came to visit and she came with him, she stopped by just briefly to say hello and loudly announced that she would never return to Brazil. Now listen, babe, I understand her frustration with this country. I know this feeling better than anyone. I know that if I had the chance to live somewhere like Australia, I'd never want to come back either. But let's draw the line. Just like I told you about her history with Andressa, there are lines that should be drawn. Knowing how much his parents suffer from missing him, making a comment like that out loud, in front of them, is simply unnecessary. It’s careless.
Then there was the birthday party for her son in December. My aunt Rosely was on the phone with Leonardo joking that it was funny how Priscila had also married a Leonardo, and that the only thing missing was a baby. When Priscila overheard, she said, “God forbid, in Jesus’ name.” Rosely who is naturally dramatic, was horrified by the comment, but honestly it could have just been a woman joking about not wanting kids yet.
Apparently, it wasn’t a joke.
After New Year’s, Priscila sent my aunt a very long message. She started by saying she respected and sympathized with Rosely’s health condition — she was diagnosed with thrombosis last year — but that constantly bringing it up to Leonardo made him sad and weighed on him emotionally. Up to that point, I actually agreed with her. Knowing my aunt, she probably does dramatize it, perhaps unconsciously, hoping it might pull him closer again. And that isn’t fair. A mother should want her child’s happiness more than her own. That’s part of loving someone. And if we’re honest, wishing the best for your child doesn’t always mean wishing they stay close.
Her second point was that their upbringings were very different — that her parents raised her and her siblings to belong to the world. She meant that Rosely was too attached, that she needed to let her son “fly,” that she held him too tightly and wanted to keep him like a little bird in a cage. I agree with that in part. But it’s easy to say when almost your entire family lives in the same country as you. It’s easier to preach about distance when your parents are right down the road.
The third and final point was about children. She told my aunt, very bluntly, that she didn’t want to be a mother and never would, that Leonardo agreed, and that they had made a mutual decision not to have kids and that Rosely needed to respect it because it wasn’t going to happen.
The first problem wasn’t what she said. It was how she said it. There was no warmth, no gentleness.
The second problem was that they barely even knew each other. They had never built any intimacy that would justify such a long, heavy message. If my partner, someone who barely spoke to my parents, sent them something like that, I would hate it. Truly hate it. If Leonardo didn’t know she sent it, that’s already bad. If he did know and allowed it, that’s even worse.
And the last thing is this: she didn’t put herself in their place. They didn’t just lose a son physically, but emotionally, overnight. He’s their only child. That alone is hard. To hear, so abruptly, that they’ll never be grandparents… that’s painful. That kind of conversation should have come from him, gently, face to face, with care. She crossed a line that should exist in every relationship, and in doing so she showed a kind of coldness.
My aunt and uncle already suffer from his absence. Receiving that kind of message and in that tone was like a bucket of cold water. You simply don’t do that to people.
Especially because Leonardo had never said he didn’t want children. Quite the opposite. The few times I went out with him and Andressa, it was part of their plans. Which makes me think he might be giving up something he once wanted for the sake of a relationship — maybe because he’s in love, though I don’t quite see it that way. To me she feels more like a rebound. But what do I really know about other people’s lives? Maybe he’s also afraid of losing the life he built abroad. Returning to the past can be frightening. Returning to Brazil, sometimes, even more so.
Even so, when I saw her crying once, I felt angry at her. I can sympathize with someone’s frustration toward a country — I truly can — but not with coldness toward two elderly parents who love the man you love, who raised him, who made him who he is.
And yet… I couldn’t be upset that she decided to come on the trip. Because when she finally bought her ticket, she sent me a message saying everything had worked out, that she was so happy she could barely contain it, that she needed something like this in her life right now.
And honestly, how could I resent someone after a message like that?
14/02 Chapter 506 Where Two Worlds Come To Meet
Carnival week. I hate it, but most Brazilians love it, both for the parties and for the days off work. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and for many people even Wednesday is free, or at least half a day.
On Saturday we went to a park near our building called Lions. I’d never heard of it before; it was Miguel’s dad — he has a two-year-old here in the building — who recommended it. Your dad is always telling me I should invite parents from your school to hang out and set up playdates, but since I’m not close enough with any of them yet, I invited Renata instead. She’s someone I know casually, married to a Canadian, and she’d chatted with your dad at your birthday party. They have a little girl who just turned a year and a half, and I thought it would be fun.
Your dad woke up in a bad mood that morning, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I told him I was going to fill up the gas tank and would be right back to pick you both up. I really did just go for gas, though on Saturdays that station always has a line, and then I stopped quickly by the shop to drop off some clothes for Rosely, who had decided to open that day. It took almost no time, but your dad is dramatic when it comes to minutes. Five extra minutes can feel like fifty-five to him. I’m certain he was annoyed because I hadn’t warned him I’d stop by the store.
What I don’t understand is why something so small can affect someone’s mood so much.
Anyway, once we arrived at the park his mood improved little by little, though not quite as much as I’d hoped. The park surprised me. It’s so close to home and I’d never noticed it. Small, but very well kept and full of families and children. There’s a playground area set in sand, but strangely you didn’t want to step on it and cried whenever your feet touched it. I say strangely because you normally love sand, but maybe the little pebbles bothered you. You didn’t seem to enjoy it much and asked several times to leave.
Renata arrived soon after with her family. We talked for a long time, and her daughter Isabela is adorable. It’s funny how every child has their own rhythm. She’s a year and a half and only now starting to take her first steps, while you were already walking at eleven months. Same with Rafinha and speech, he took longer, but today he’s completely caught up with kids his age.
Something interesting about Renata’s family is that they’re all vegan. Vegan, not vegetarian. That was actually something your dad and I talked about later that night. Everyone finds happiness in different places and in different ways of living. Personally, I don’t fully understand veganism. I know they say they avoid anything derived from animals because animals are forced to “work” and are “exploited,” as they put it. But not every place treats animals badly. You can’t generalize. There are farms where animals are well cared for — cows, bees, livestock — places where they live good lives. Why not simply research where products come from and choose ethical sources?
I understand vegetarianism. I’ve considered it myself many times. But I also know I’d probably starve, since I don’t eat salads, fruits, vegetables, or greens. I love animals deeply and can’t bear to see them suffer. I avoid videos, stories... I’d rather stay ignorant sometimes, because when I think too much about it I lose my appetite for meat altogether, and then I risk my health. I’m aware that doesn’t make me the most evolved human being. In a perfect world, no heart would have to stop beating for yours to keep beating. In a perfect world, food wouldn’t come from blood or pain. But I’m human. Imperfect. Still learning. I respect vegetarians a lot.
Vegans, to me, feel like a more extreme version of that. Never tasting milk, yogurt, honey, cheese, it feels radical. Honestly, I think extremes exist on both ends. Eating meat without reflection can be extreme, and so can total restriction. Vegetarians seem like a balance point, and I admire that.
Another complicated question is raising a child within a specific lifestyle. I understand that children eat what their parents cook. But is it fair to impose a worldview on someone who can’t yet choose? It reminds me of religion, the same question I’ve written about before. Is it right to require your child to follow your faith, or was my father right to let us decide later? I don’t know. In parenting, there rarely seems to be a single correct answer. We inevitably pass on our values. What matters, I think, is respecting our children if they grow up and choose differently.
One funny thing I noticed about Renata and her husband: she tends to correct him constantly. At one point he was holding Isabela’s hands while helping her walk, and Renata kept repeating that he was holding them too high and should lower them. She said it so many times that eventually he got irritated and replied. Your dad sometimes does the same thing to me by correcting things I don’t think need correcting, sometimes even in front of others. It’s uncomfortable. And I could tell he didn’t like it either.
We also talked about having a second child. Renata said she and her husband want one, especially him. But if they do, she wants another girl, just like I do. When I asked him what he thought, he smiled and said he’d be happy either way.
“Be honest,” she told him.
He laughed.
“Be honest.”
He hesitated and said a girl would be lovely, but he thought a boy would be great too.
“You want a girl,” she insisted.
He looked at her like — are you trying to decide what I’m allowed to want? And honestly, he had a point. Your dad and I exchanged glances like what is happening right now?
Some people try to control even their partner’s preferences. It happens both ways, but I notice it often in couples. It felt a bit awkward.
He told me they met in Canada. He was a tour guide and she was part of his group. He said he’d already been vegetarian back then, and she was the one who encouraged him to go fully vegan. I joked that it would’ve been difficult if he’d been a meat-lover, because that might’ve been a deal breaker like people with completely opposite political or religious beliefs. Some differences are simply too big when they matter deeply to both sides.
We stayed at the park until six, when it closed. Isabela wanted to hold your hand as we walked out, and you happily held hers. You loved it. Sometimes you walked too fast for her and we had to remind you to slow down. At one point her mom and I tried holding her hands, but she cried because she only wanted yours. You were so happy about that. Even when we reached the street and her mom picked her up, you two were still trying to reach for each other’s hands. On the drive home you kept talking about her and saying you wanted to see her again. You would make such a wonderful big sister. If that ever happens, though, you won’t be this tiny anymore. Still, you’re so affectionate and gentle with babies.
Afterward we went home to shower. Your dad went to his place to shower, and then we met to go out for dinner.
I asked for restaurant recommendations in a local moms’ group and chose one that looked nice on Instagram. I wanted somewhere good but not as expensive as the last place we went. But when we arrived, it was just as pricey, maybe more. The tables were packed too closely together, which made it feel cramped. Your dad asked to move to a quieter table, but that one was freezing from the air conditioning, so we moved again. Still cold, but slightly better. We hadn’t brought jackets because it was hot outside, so I tried to distract you from the chill.
The food was good. Your chicken cost R$50 and was basically a single seasoned breast with fries, almost offensive for that price. I understand higher prices for elaborate dishes, but a kids’ meal costing that much always shocks me. And of course you barely ate the chicken and focused entirely on the fries.
I ordered gnocchi, the house favorite, and a fried brie appetizer that was delicious. I kept trying to convince you to taste it, telling you it was tapioca. After insisting for a while, you finally took a bite and said:
“Okay, now leave me alone.”
Your dad burst out laughing because he knows I can be persistent about food. I just stared at you, speechless.
In the end the bill was even higher than the last restaurant, which already annoyed me but not as much as the fact they charged five reais for a take-home box. I have never been to a restaurant that charged for a box. The place was already expensive, a small bottle of water cost R$10 and they still charged for cardboard.
Your dad and I agreed: the food was good, but we won’t be going back. Sometimes greed is so excessive that it ends up costing a business customers.
The plan had been for your dad to watch a movie with me and sleep over, but he was exhausted, so we postponed it to tomorrow.
Today, everywhere else in the world, it’s Valentine’s Day.
Men really can be hilariously clueless sometimes.
15/02 Chapter 507 Perfectly Imperfect
We woke up, picked up your dad, and went out for breakfast at one in the afternoon. Yes — one. Lunchtime breakfast, because why not?
There’s a street just around the corner from our place that I love. It’s cozy, lively, lined with little restaurants and cafés, and almost every place we’ve eaten lately — except yesterday’s — has been there. This café was on that same street. The moment we walked in, it felt warm and welcoming, with a display case full of beautiful breads that reminded me of the bakery in Juquehy. When we saw the menu, I actually sighed in relief: the prices were reasonable.
You had your heart set on a pain au chocolat, but we told you sweets would come after something savory. I hesitated between ordering you a chicken pie or an omelet. I asked which one you wanted, but you were too upset to answer because, in truth, you wanted neither. So I chose the omelet. I ordered toasted bread with requeijão, and your dad picked a sandwich called Benedito, a French-style sandwich. We added orange juices and a bottle of water.
When his sandwich arrived, it was enormous and still inexpensive. My bread looked delicious and cost only twelve reais. As for your omelet… well, I had to work hard to convince you to eat it. After some negotiations and protests, I managed to get you through at least half. Then you and I shared a pain au chocolat. I split it evenly: your half had the chocolate, mine was mostly bread. So no, it wasn’t quite as good as the one from Juquehy — neither in flavor nor filling — but that was okay.
While we were at the table, we took a few pictures together, and I sent them to the family group chat.
My sister, in all her distracted glory, thought we were at Disney. Of course I had to play along and tease her, which made everyone laugh. She’s so absent-minded she genuinely thought I’d flown off to Disney out of nowhere — never mind that Mom had told her she’d be coming with us someday, and at that very moment Mom was babysitting her own son. Honestly, it’s Carnival season; she’s been out nonstop and probably won’t return to real life until Wednesday. Still, I wouldn’t trade moments like these with family for any party. This, to me, is happiness — building memories our children will carry forever.
When the bill came, your dad announced he wanted to pay for everything. He’s funny that way: he’ll charge me for a six-real toothpaste he bought me, yet sometimes he has these generous bursts and covers dinner or something I never expected.
Afterward we stopped by Trimais because we had no food at home. You were thrilled to help grab things from the shelves and toss them into the cart, which you call the “crazy cart” because we push it fast and zigzag through the aisles.
In the yogurt section, I picked your usual whole-milk yogurt, but you begged for the strawberry Elsa one. Your dad, of course, disapproved, but I grabbed it anyway, saying it wouldn’t hurt once in a while. He argued you’d already had pain au chocolat. I countered that it had only been half. Then you couldn’t decide between the drinkable yogurt and the squeeze-pack one. I told you to choose, but you just couldn’t. So I suggested we take both — one for each day, not both at once — which seemed perfectly reasonable to me. Your dad disagreed. To him, the lesson mattered more: learning to choose one and be happy with it, instead of sad about not getting both. And honestly, I understood what he meant.
At Trimais we ran into Miguel’s parents, your little classmate from school. His mom, Mariana, studied with me years ago. His dad, Bruno, used to hook up with one of my friends while I was seeing his friend Luquinhas — I think I’ve told you that story. Anyway, they mentioned they’d be going to Disney in two days, and we said our turn would come soon enough. We talked about the park we visited yesterday, which they didn’t know yet, and I said next time we go we should invite them so you two can play together.
Later, your grandma asked if she could pick you up to take you to her house. Since I was planning to watch a movie with your dad that night, I thought it was a great idea. She was coming into São Paulo anyway to get ice cream with my grandmother, who was with her — though I asked her to keep that detail quiet. Otherwise your dad would definitely protest, considering you’d already had strawberry yogurt and a pain au chocolat that day.
When we were alone, we had one of those difficult conversations again, and I cried. Not because he made me cry — I’m just deeply sensitive — but because he said there were still things he found unsustainable, like the mess in the house and the fact that I don’t cook. He said most mothers cook. I know that. But I don’t have the time. I explained that most moms who cook are the ones who stay home and manage the house, which isn’t my reality. We went back and forth about it. As for the clutter, it’s complicated: my main source of income right now comes from these donations and the pieces I sell. I take as much as I can to my parents’ house and even to my dad’s old office, but sometimes I simply can’t keep up. I clean as best I can with the time I have, though I know I could still do better.
I cry because it’s frustrating, yet I also know he isn’t entirely wrong.
Later we watched a documentary about a serial killer nurse in the U.K. who murdered several newborns. Eventually your dad fell asleep with his head in my lap, and I kept stroking his hair. But after that he went home and didn’t stay the night. He said our conversation hadn’t ended in a place that felt right enough for that.
And I’m left here, still unsure what comes next. I suppose all I can do is keep working on myself and let life unfold.
19/02 Chapter 508 This Version of You
Now let’s talk about you — because that’s why I started this diary in the first place. So that one day, when you’re a teenager, you’ll be able to read pieces of your own life told through memories that would otherwise be lost to time.
You’ve been loving swimming lessons. Your dad and I stand upstairs, watching through the glass, completely enchanted. You splash your little hands and kick your legs with such determination, and sometimes you break into tiny dances in the water without even realizing it. It’s impossible not to smile.
I am absolutely dying to enroll you in ballet when classes start at school in the second week of March. You’ve been talking about ballet nonstop lately. There’s a song I play for you on Spotify that you insist on performing for anyone within reach. And the way you dance — the way you already attempt real ballet steps — is the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. The funny part? I have no idea where you learned them. School hasn’t introduced ballet yet, and you rarely watch anything related to it. Somehow, it’s just in you.
I need to record these little ballet performances so you can watch them someday. You’ll fall in love with yourself.
Sometimes I think: if you’re already dancing like this without lessons, imagine what you’ll do once you actually start learning. You’ll want to be the best — because that’s who you are. You’ve always been like that. Even as a baby, you only wanted to try something if you could do it well. You don’t like doing things wrong. You don’t like losing. You push yourself. Maybe a little too much. A tiny perfectionist already.
Your great-grandmother, Bisa Sonia, said the other day that she can picture you as that diligent little student — organized pencils, neat backpack, attentive, responsible. She was a teacher her whole life, so she sees these things. And I think she’s right.
Back to ballet — you’ve already performed your routine for me, for Rafinha, for Grandpa Ronaldo, Grandma Simone, Bisa Sonia, Isabella’s parents who were here last weekend, your paternal grandparents through the phone camera, and Aunt Rosane. I’ve noticed something about you: even when you’re shy, when it comes to ballet, your desire to shine is stronger than your embarrassment. You may hesitate, you may blush, but you still do a few steps. Just enough to show how beautifully you can move.
About vegetables — I’ve managed to get you to eat green beans, carrots, and mandioquinha. Carrots are still the hardest, but I discovered that you’ll happily eat them grated, just not in cubes. So grated carrots it is from now on. Motherhood is basically strategy.
And now it’s not just me reading to you anymore — you read to me. And it is the sweetest thing in the universe. The way you retell the stories absolutely melts the coldest heart. It’s incredible to see how a child’s brain stores information and then retells it in its own way, remembering tiny details we’ve already forgotten. Listening to you reminds me of that childhood game “telephone,” where a sentence gets whispered from person to person and arrives completely transformed at the end. That’s what it feels like — your own magical version of the story, familiar but entirely yours.
And finally, I made a promise to myself: I’m going to work less and play more. More dolls. More princess games — which you adore, especially when you imitate their voices. More puzzles. More sitting on the floor with you and being fully present.
Because one day, you won’t want to play princess anymore, no matter how much I wish you would. I’ll have the rest of my life to work and make money. But this time — this version of you, this childhood — no amount of money in the world can buy it back.
You’re growing so fast. And since time doesn’t seem interested in slowing down for me, I promise I’ll dedicate more of myself to you and to your childhood. It’s a privilege to watch you grow, to see you bloom.
I love you.
21/02 Chapter 509 The Cards Were Sacked Against Us Both
It’s the third weekend with your dad. The second one where nothing happens.
He says he wants to take things slowly this time to observe, to notice real change before taking a step bigger than he can handle. I try to respect that. I really do. But what hurts isn’t the pace. It’s the way he looks at me now.
Ever since he came back, he doesn’t look at me the way he did before he left for Barcelona. And that subtle shift — that almost imperceptible difference in his eyes — makes me unbearably sad. Frustrated. Small.
When he walked out in the middle of the night and refused to stay over — completely refused — my heart folded in on itself. I felt like a tiny ball of cat fur wanting to curl up in a corner and disappear. There are many kinds of sadness, but the kind that physically aches in your chest? That’s the one I dread. Because the next day I wake up feeling like a sack of potatoes: heavy, dull, incapable of wanting anything at all.
And the real problem isn’t that he leaves. It’s that he never wants to stay.
If I believed he didn’t stay because he was being careful — protecting himself, protecting me — while secretly wanting to, I could live with that. If I felt desire behind the restraint, I would understand the rational decision. But what breaks me is the feeling that he simply doesn’t want to. That the will isn’t there. And that possibility destroys me.
Our relationship has always been a roller coaster of want-don’t want-want-don’t want. As if he has an internal switch on and off and most of the time it stays off. Sometimes, for reasons I don’t fully understand, it flips on. Like it did in the months before his trip. And now I’m terrified that the switch has flipped off again.
I had already started imagining a life for the three of us. Quietly making plans in my head. He was the one who suggested we sit down and talk about getting back together. So the idea that it could all collapse again feels unbearable. I want this family. I want to fall in love with him again. More than anything, I want him to fall in love with me.
But loving someone who isn’t sure is exhausting.
Today started lightly. I invited Isabella, the baby, and her parents to come over and play at the playground downstairs. At first it was just you and her. We brought a few toys, some fruit your dad carried down, and a bottle of water.
Then more kids started arriving — Olivia and her sister Sarah, then three boys — and just like that the entire courtyard was overflowing with children. Laughter everywhere. Running feet. Chaos in the best way. The only ones missing were Noah and Sophia.
There are so many children in this building. I know I’ll miss that. I hope our new place has that same kind of life — that you find beautiful friendships there too.
As time passed, you started playing more with Olivia, who isn’t even a year older than you. You’ve always been shy around her, but little by little you’re opening up. Olivia is fearless, the kind of child who talks to everyone, jumps into every game, stirs up harmless mischief. Just like your cousin Rafinha.
All the parents were there too. And your dad, as always, ended up in the middle of it. You and Olivia grabbed those foam pool noodles and chased him around, hitting him and laughing hysterically. You were glowing.
We stayed downstairs for hours. Around 7 p.m., your grandma arrived. You were ecstatic, almost vibrating with happiness, and left with her to sleep over. Meanwhile Isabella and her family were still there. The baby needed a diaper change, so I invited them upstairs to use your old changing table. After that, they left. Your dad walked them out and said he’d go home to shower and be back at nine.
He came back at nine. By then, I was starving.
I faced a dramatic internal debate: burger or pizza. I love both so it's unfair to choose. Deep down I wanted the burger more. But I knew he was craving pizza. So I chose pizza. To please him.
We were going to order two slices — one he liked, one I liked. I clicked Ribs for him, then Barbecue Bacon for me. What I didn’t notice was that the promotion didn’t allow half-and-half. It was one flavor only. So the order went through as Barbecue Bacon, the last option I selected.
When it arrived, he laughed and teased me, thinking I’d forgotten his slice. “Typical you,” he joked. He always says things have to be my way, that my preferences win and his get overlooked. This mistake didn’t exactly help my case. But it truly wasn’t intentional. I think he understood.
We watched a surprisingly good shark movie my aunt recommended. We enjoyed it. We ate. There was one slice left, which I mentally reserved for breakfast.
After the movie, we talked a little. And then he said he was going home.
I didn’t even try to stop him.
When he first arrived, he’d said,
“About tonight — no pressure, no expectations. Let’s just relax and watch the movie.”
So the boundary had already been drawn. A subtle rejection before I could even reach for anything more. And hearing that sent me straight back to old San Diego wounds, that familiar feeling of being gently pushed away before I even move closer.
So he left.
And I went to bed sad.
28/02 Chapter 510 When tThe World Is Watching
Today my parents finally came back after spending several days at the beach house taking care of some issues there like termites in the house and, of course, cockroaches.
They arrived early this morning and stopped by a little before two in the afternoon just to give you a kiss. They didn’t stay long because we were going to see each other again that night at Gabriel’s birthday party, which was being held in Aunt Rosane’s party room. After the party, you would sleep at my parents’ house while your dad and I had another one of our conversations.
Your dad stayed with you during the afternoon, but you were definitely not in the best mood. The final straw came when you scratched your leg on a sticker stuck to your bed and made two tiny little cuts. You asked for a cotton swab with water to clean it, but the moment the water touched the scratch you started screaming in pain and carried on like that for about thirty minutes, driving both of us slightly insane.
You definitely inherited my flair for drama and unfortunately my low tolerance for pain. That worries me a little because I was exactly the same growing up. Although I’m not sure I was quite as dramatic as you. Two tiny scratches and you reacted as if it were a catastrophe. Ever since you were little, even if you bump your head and it barely hurts, you still put on quite the performance.
On top of the drama, you were exhausted. I couldn’t quite understand why — you woke up around 9:30, which is only slightly earlier than usual, and lately you never want to nap anymore or even seem tired enough to sleep during the afternoon. But today you were clearly running on empty.
After your dad left, I gave you a bath and dried your hair. While I was drying the back of your neck, you almost fell face-first onto the floor because you were literally falling asleep standing up. That’s when I realized we would have to arrive late to the party, there was no way I could take you like that. You needed sleep.
The moment I laid you on the couch, you fell asleep instantly and slept for about an hour. Because of that we arrived almost an hour and a half after the party had started, but that was fine.
Not surprisingly, my parents hadn’t arrived yet. A party that starts at six is practically impossible for your grandmother to attend on time, something everyone already knows. They ended up arriving a little after eight.
For you, the party was a bit of a bore. There were children there, but none that you really knew, so you stayed shy and glued to my side the entire time. Whenever someone tried to talk to you, you hid behind your own arms like a little shield. And of course, after a while, you ended up watching cartoons on my phone — something I’m not a fan of either. In hindsight, that one was on me. I should have brought a few toys or something to keep you entertained. Parties like that simply aren’t very fun for you.
It was a hamburger buffet. I ate two and started feeling sick afterward, probably because the burgers were full-sized, not the smaller ones you’d expect from a buffet.
You ate fries and nuggets, and honestly I just thanked God your dad wasn’t there. His two greatest enemies in one place: cartoons and junk food.
I left the party a little before 9:30, picked your dad up at his house, and we went to talk.
At first we watched a documentary on Netflix about a mother who had pressured her daughter since she was very young to be the best at everything. As the girl grew older, the mother became obsessed with making her famous and eventually succeeded through YouTube videos — but in the process she exploited not only her own daughter but other children and teenagers as well.
I kept thinking: what kind of mother brings a child into the world only to use her as a golden ticket?
How can a parent place fame and money above their child’s well-being, safety, and happiness?
If there’s one thing I never wish for myself, for you, or for anyone I love, it’s fame. You can be wealthy — even extremely wealthy — without needing the spotlight. Fame turns you into someone you’re not. It puts you under constant scrutiny. Everyone feels entitled to your life, every detail, every mistake. It brings stalkers, strangers giving opinions about your existence, and endless critics.
I’ve always heard that life tends to go better when it’s lived privately — when certain things are kept sacred instead of displayed to the world. Today I understand that completely.
It’s heartbreaking how some parents exploit their children and turn them into little media slaves. Britney Spears is a famous example. People say she endured terrible things with her family, especially her father. She became one of the biggest stars of the 2000s, but the price she paid seems to have been incredibly high. And today people say she’s not entirely well. But honestly — who could blame her?
Sometimes I think about how many people out there would be wonderful parents. People who dream of having children. Even people who were amazing parents but tragically lost their children.
And yet somehow, others who should never have been given that responsibility become parents and end up traumatizing their kids — shaping them into victims or, sometimes, into monsters later in life.
A child should be protected above everything else.
What that mother did was essentially sell her daughter. It got to the point where one of the girl’s male fans — she was only fourteen or fifteen at the time — asked for her underwear. And the mother actually made the girl send it to him so he could “smell it.” In return he sent expensive gifts — iPhones, luxury products, even Gucci luggage for both the mother and the daughter.
How can someone sell their child like that?
After the documentary ended, your dad and I talked. This conversation went better than the last ones, but nothing was really decided.
So for now… I suppose all that’s left is to let it be.
