My birthday has had its share of little disasters ever since I turned sixteen, and this year it seemed like the rain would be the problem. At least, that’s what I thought.
I wish it had been.
We woke up around 10:30. It wasn’t raining, so we rushed to get ready, hoping to make it to the beach as early as possible—to salvage at least one good day, all of us together.
But of course, leaving the house with children is never simple.
Sunscreen here, towels there, swimsuits, snacks, bags—while trying to keep an eye on three kids at the same time. The house quickly turned into chaos. And the kids, as always, were playing and almost fighting in the same breath.
At one point, you and Rafinha were by the front door. He was teasing, pretending he might close the door on your hand. And you—of course—didn’t move away. You stayed there until the very last second. When he slammed it near your hand—without actually touching you—you burst into tears as if it had really hurt.
That’s something about you. You feel things deeply. Even when nothing actually happens, you react as if the world just ended.
Your grandfather, who was sitting nearby working, said it hadn’t even touched you. But your father, hearing you cry, immediately rushed over to protect you, asking what had happened. My father explained, but your dad kept insisting, saying things like, “Rafinha can’t do that,” and going on and on.
And my father… well, he already feels like your dad is always criticizing Rafinha. And since Rafinha is his grandson too, he takes it personally.
So, as expected—and honestly, it even took longer than usual, considering his temperament—he snapped.
“Then you take care of him, for f***’s sake. Judging is easy.”
Your dad clearly wasn’t expecting that. He went quiet for a second, a bit embarrassed. But then, in a low voice—so low I’m almost sure my father didn’t even hear—he replied:
“He’s not my son…”
I think almost everyone in the house witnessed that moment.
Except Matt and Camila’s mother.
And something about it broke me in a way I can’t fully explain.
You know those levels of sadness I once told you about? I reached the worst one again—the kind that burns in your throat, where the tears feel trapped until they spill over. The kind that leaves you numb, heavy, wanting nothing more than to curl up under a blanket like a burrito and disappear for a while.
My birthday ended right there.
The first real clash between your father and my father—on my birthday.
Of course, your father couldn’t just let things go for one day. Not even for me.
There’s something deeply painful about watching two people you love slowly lose their ability to tolerate each other. I understand my mother now, when she used to say how much it hurt her to see me and my sister fight.
It hurts. It really does.
I went to the bedroom to change you, and I cried. A lot.
Your father tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t even stand the thought of him coming close. I pushed him away, told him I didn’t want to talk, my voice still shaking with tears.
My mother tried to calm me down, telling me not to let it get to me, that it was between them and they would sort it out.
But I needed air.
I took your little hand and walked to the beach with you.
Just us.
I decided I wouldn’t let anything ruin my day completely. I would celebrate my birthday with the person I love the most in this world—the one who, at least for now, cannot hurt me.
You.
As I walked out, I saw your father trying to explain himself to mine. They were already talking, already making peace. But for me, it was too late. The damage was done.
You were happy just to be going to the beach with me. And somehow, that was enough.
At first, we collected seashells together. Then we started building a sandcastle, carving a little stream around it. That’s when your father arrived.
I still didn’t want to talk to him.
He tried anyway—placing his hand gently on my neck, telling me to relax, that it had been nothing, that only I had made it into something bigger. That men are like that, that it’s normal.
I nodded. But I said nothing.
Silence stayed between us.
Later, I left you with him while he covered your legs in sand, turning you into a little mermaid. I walked away to collect more shells—to decorate your tail, and also to put some distance between us.
But eventually, he followed.
Camila, Matt, and Lucca arrived not long after, and your father used that moment to come closer again. He told me it was time to change my mood. That my birthday may have started badly, but it could still end well.
He hugged me.
And I let him.
I can’t stay angry for long. It’s just not who I am. Still, something inside me remained quiet… and a little sad.
I sat with Camila for a while, talking, venting, while your father played with you and Matt dug a giant hole in the sand with Lucca.
Later, my mom, Nena, and Rafinha arrived, and you lit up immediately.
You and Rafinha played together, but Lucca didn’t really join you at the beach. And just like that, my little dream of the three of you running and laughing together dissolved into the sand.
At some point, Camila gave Lucca corn to eat and put a cartoon on her phone for him. I noticed your father watching. Maybe—just maybe—he would realize that other parents do the same things I do sometimes. Even though I rarely do it, he still paints me as the villain.
Then my father arrived and pulled me aside, explaining that men are like that, that it wasn’t really a fight, just his stressed way of speaking. His “Italian DNA,” he said.
I nodded again.
That was my mood for the day—just nodding.
I stayed a little longer, but I couldn’t find my way back to happiness. So I quietly got up and walked back home alone to take a shower.
My body was begging for it—especially after holding you for so long, my legs covered in sand, aching.
On the way, I passed two workers. Before getting into the shower, I grabbed a knife and brought it with me.
Being a woman—especially in Brazil—means thinking about things men rarely even consider. There are so many stories, so many headlines… you learn to protect yourself in ways that might seem extreme to others.
Not because they were workers.
But because they were men.
An empty house. A woman alone.
Sometimes that’s all it takes.
Nothing happened. No one came in.
But even then, part of me imagined that your father might notice I was gone. That he might come looking for me, try to talk to me. Even while I was in the shower, I imagined it.
I’ve always lived a little too much inside my own imagination.
And of course… he didn’t come.
After almost an hour in the shower, waiting for something that never came, I went to the living room, didn’t even bother drying my hair, and turned on The Middle. It’s a show I started watching this month—a light, funny family series. It talks about motherhood and family life in a way that feels both chaotic and comforting.
I lay there on the couch, drained.
Everyone could tell.
My father came over and said that wasn’t how I should spend my birthday. Then he told me not to be upset with Stan, that he hadn’t done anything wrong.
I nodded.
That was all I had left in me.
We fed you and Rafinha a little before heading out, knowing you wouldn’t really eat at the restaurant. Then we all went to that great burger place in Juquehy to celebrate.
While everyone settled at the table, I stepped out to check one of those claw machines across the street. That’s when I heard shouting:
“LUCCA! RAFAEL!”
My father was yelling, scolding Rafinha.
Apparently, he and Lucca had been fighting, and Rafinha slapped him across the face.
It’s hard… all of it.
Soon after, Rafinha fell asleep. He was exhausted—and getting sick too.
We ordered food. Everyone loved it. You, even after eating earlier, still filled your belly with fries—your favorite.
We stayed there for about two hours.
At the end, your father surprised me. He insisted on paying for everything—over five hundred reais. He wanted to be generous, to thank Matt for everything he had done for us in San Diego, to make a good impression.
And it was a beautiful gesture.
But not for me.
That’s the part I struggle to understand. He can do something so generous for others… but when it comes to me, I’ve never seen that same kind of gesture. Not really.
We ended the night with ice cream.
And of course, not without your father making a face when your grandfather gave you bubblegum and cotton candy ice cream—full of artificial colors. And then, to top it off, some M&M’s.
These things wear me down.
When Matt bought M&M’s for Lucca, I caught myself thinking: Why can’t Stan be just a little more like that? Why does everything around sugar, food, and treats have to be such a battle? Will it always be like this?
Later that night, I asked your father to watch a movie with me. But my mom and Nena stayed downstairs, and even if they hadn’t… I don’t know if anything would have been different.
He fell asleep halfway through the movie anyway.
So…
Happy birthday to me, I guess.
12/03 Chapter 516: Trying To Hold It All Together
