03/08 Chapter 428 Let's win this thing
For the first time in my life, I went to a political protest. And this time, it wasn’t about supporting Bolsonaro, it was about calling for amnesty and the impeachment of Alexandre de Moraes.
Even under the weight of the Magnitsky Act, the man hasn’t stepped down, and he won’t. Now the other Supreme Court justices are in the crosshairs too. According to Donald Trump’s administration, anyone who helps Moraes—whether they’re fellow judges or outside allies—not only loses their U.S. visa (which most already have) but also gets hit with the full force of the Magnitsky Act. And that’s far more devastating than losing a visa. It wipes you out financially—banks won’t take you, credit cards are off-limits, and you’re stuck living on cash. And that’s just the beginning; there’s a long list of other consequences that come with it.
I’ll admit, I enjoyed seeing him publicly humiliated and added to a list reserved for tyrants and terrorists. But I don’t believe he’ll give up power. He’s a psychopath and psychopaths double down, and they fear nothing. Venezuela’s entire Supreme Court was sanctioned in the exact same way, and they’re still clinging to power. They’ve found ways to keep their lives comfortable, and our corrupt judges won’t be any different.
One of them in particular—one of the most corrupt of all—was even exposed abroad for working with the Biden administration and the CIA to interfere in Brazil’s 2022 elections. He owns a $22 million property in the U.S., along with offices and speaking engagements at Harvard. Losing his business and his luxury home will be a blow. Losing his visa already hurt him. If the Magnitsky Act comes for him, he’ll be the one hit the hardest.
But Brazil is infamous for corruption, it’s been that way since my grandparents’ time. Our politicians are a disgrace, and the Supreme Court is no exception. They’ll fight tooth and nail to hold on. That’s why, even though I’m glad these sanctions are in place, I don’t think much will change for Brazil unless Moraes is actually removed from power. And the moment is now—either we bring him down, or a full-blown dictatorship will take hold, just like in Venezuela or China. And then… it’s over.
This is the time for the people to rise, to protest, to shout, to make themselves heard. And this time, I was there. I went with my parents, Aunt Ro, her idiot husband, my sweet grandma, and Cheila (the mom of Noah and Sophia).
You stayed with your godmother, who took you to Uncle Rafael’s parents’ farm, where you had the time of your life feeding the horses.
While you played, I was fighting for a better country, not just for you, because you might not even be here, but for my nephew and for the family who will remain.
We took the subway, and at first, I thought the crowd wasn’t that big. But as we got closer, I realized there were enough people to make noise and be impossible to ignore.
Being so short, I found something to climb on so I could actually see. And to my surprise—and absolute joy, there he was: Nikolas Ferreira. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of seeing him; he’s from Belo Horizonte. But when he appeared, I probably looked like a crazy person.
Nikolas is young—about four years younger than me—but he’s done more than most people twice his age. He doesn’t bow to the system, he’s razor-sharp, he says exactly what needs to be said, and he gets under the skin of every corrupt figure in his path. One day, I believe I’ll see him as the president of Brazil—if we still have clean elections by then, and if we haven’t fallen completely into a dictatorship.
Seeing him there, surrounded by so many people standing up against the absurdity we’re living through, made it all worth it.
I just hope he never disappoints me like the others have, and that he keeps being one in a million.
07/08 Chapter 429 All About You
Daughter, here are a few things about you:
-
You’re unbelievably affectionate and fiercely protective. Once, my sister pretended to pull my hair and you burst into tears. That’s just one of many little moments that showed us how deeply protective you are.
-
Like me, you inherited your mom’s sweet tooth. You’re a little sugar bug—much to your dad’s despair—choosing chocolate and candy over anything savory, every single time.
-
You’re a little fashionista. I never was. You like feeling beautiful and love when people notice and say so.
-
Dresses are your weakness—especially the twirly ones. You can’t resist spinning around just to watch the skirt swirl.
-
And shoes. Oh, you love shoes. I never cared for them, but you light up when you get a new pair. When I was a kid, I hated getting shoes as gifts—I only wanted toys, nothing else.
-
The way you love your grandparents is beautiful, but your bond with your grandfather… that’s something out of this world.
-
You and Rafinha are like siblings—right down to the arguments. But you can’t seem to exist without each other.
-
Even though we set stricter screen limits for you, you’re far more hooked on cartoons than Rafinha ever was (and he didn’t have any screen limits). I think you take after me in that. I’ve always loved losing myself in shows—cartoons, soap operas, series—more than your Aunt Tayna ever did. Many times I’d skip other plans just to sink into that imaginary world. Maybe the real one always felt too heavy for me, so I found shelter in fiction to face it better.
-
You’re already so close to your little school friends. One afternoon when I came to pick you up, you were at the playground. As you left, your friends called out, “Bye, Mel!” and you, grinning from ear to ear, answered, “Bye, kisses!” blowing kisses their way. Then you turned to me and said, “They’re my friends.”
-
You’re already excited for your birthday. Seeing your classmates celebrate theirs has you constantly asking when yours will be. I think you’ll enjoy your third birthday party more than any before.
-
You adore princesses—your current favorites are Cinderella and Elsa—but you can’t resist singing along to Moana’s songs.
-
You learn things so quickly. You mastered riding a bike with training wheels right away and figured out how to swing all by yourself, pushing your legs forward and back. But when you can’t do something, you get so frustrated—angry at first, and then in tears.
-
You hate being held down. Whether it’s taking medicine, doing an inhalation, or putting something in your nose—you’d rather do it yourself, like a big girl, than have anyone hold you still. I think that might be a shadow left from your hospital stays.
Just like your mom, you’ve loved sleeping since the day you were born. You enjoy going to bed late, waking up late, and you love sleeping in your own bed. In fact, your bed is bigger than mine, and somehow you still manage to claim every inch of it—arms and legs sprawled out like a starfish. Sometimes you even spin in a full circle from the position I originally placed you in.
-
You’re not the type to get cold easily.
You’re very shy—a trait that seemed to appear out of nowhere at a certain point in your life. Now, the moment you see unfamiliar faces, you retreat, hiding between my legs or curling into your own arms, your head bowed. Take the doorman at school, for example: every single day, without fail, he greets you with a cheerful “Hi, Melanie,” and you walk past in complete silence, eyes down.
Even with relatives you see fairly often, if too much time passes between visits, it takes a while before you finally warm up.You love to pretend you're driving my car.
You love to run, but just like me, you’re a little uncoordinated. Your stride tilts slightly to the side, giving your run a quirky, almost playful crookedness.
Strangely enough, you’re always thrilled when I come to pick you up from school—but the entire car ride home, more often than not, you end up fussing or crying for no reason at all, and out of nowhere.
You’re incredibly bossy—incredibly. My sister always jokes that you’ve got the soul of a mom.
-
You constantly mix up green and red. Whenever I ask you how to say “green” in English, your answer is always “red.”
09/08 Chapter 430 All About You
Today was Father’s Day at your preschool, and they’d planned a little celebration—gifts for the dads and a special dance from you all.
We were the second to arrive, right after my sister. A few minutes later, the teachers whisked the children away while the parents were led to the school gym. After about five minutes, you all came in to perform your Father’s Day song. But right when it was your class’s turn, the speaker stopped working. Suddenly, there you all were—frozen in front of a crowd of parents, waiting for music that never came.
To make things even more awkward, instead of fixing the speaker, they played the song on a phone. We couldn’t hear a thing. Poor Teacher Alice ended up singing loudly to try to save the moment. Most of the kids barely danced, probably because of the sound issue—they just wiggled a little. You, though, turned into a statue. I could tell you’d been ready to perform at first, but standing there so long, staring at a sea of adults, made you shut down. At one point, I honestly thought you might cry. You just wanted it to be over. And when it finally was, you ran straight into my arms.
Then came the English song performance, and this time, your dad had to go up and stand with you—otherwise, you wouldn’t have gone back in front of everyone.
It was different from the June Festival dance. Back then, all the kids danced more (including you) and seemed so much more at ease. Maybe it helped that the space was bigger and the audience was farther away.
After the music, the children handed out the standard little personalized gift for their dads. Then we all had hamburgers the school had prepared, while you happily ran around the playground with your friends.
The event was held at Unit 2, not your usual school building. Your current unit is for kids from nursery to age three. From age four onward, classes are at Unit 2. Which means, my little flower, next year you’ll be moving there—right now, you’re the oldest in your unit, and next year you’ll be the youngest in the new one. I actually really liked Unit 2; it’s bigger and has lots of fun spaces for you to explore.
After all that, you and I curled up and napped together in the afternoon. Later, your dad came to pick you up so you could spend the night with him and wake up tomorrow to celebrate Father’s Day together—because he truly is a wonderful dad to you.
11-15/08 Chapter 430 There's no coming back
This week flew by in the blink of an eye. You went to school every day, but on Tuesday you slept at your dad’s, and on Wednesday your grandma asked to take you home with her so you could spend the night with her and grandpa. Luckily, your dad swapped Thursday for Friday so you could sleep there again, otherwise it would’ve been three nights in a row without you. I don’t think we’ve ever gone that long, haha.
It was such a happy, wonderful week with you. We played with blocks, played with your little monkey (you love when I grab him and make him “talk”), played with Noah and Sophia, watched cartoons, snuggled up to sleep, talked… just enjoyed each other.
Then today—Friday—before your dad came to pick you up, the package from the U.S. finally arrived, and inside were the Elsa dresses I ordered for your third birthday. They’re a bit big, but you adored them. In fact, getting you to take one off was an ordeal—you threw yourself on the floor, cried, and put on the biggest show. I had to take it off so you could leave with your dad and bundle you up in a jacket because it was freezing. But even with all the drama, I couldn’t help feeling happy, seeing how much you loved your dresses and didn’t want to let them go.
The only thing weighing on me right now is the surgery. Today I had my second and final appointment with Dr. Rafael before the big day, and my mom and sister came with me. Everything is now paid and set, and it’s less than two weeks away… I’m trying to savor every single moment with you, as if each one were the last. And I promise that even when everything goes well (and it has to go well), I’ll keep making the most of our days together. Because every day with you makes me happy—you’ve completely changed my life.
My return visit went smoothly. Since my sister came along and wanted to ask questions about breast implants, most of the appointment ended up being about that. I also asked for a quote for myself—what it would cost to bring my breasts closer together, create more definition in the cleavage, and do a mastopexy, since they sagged quite a bit after breastfeeding.
I seriously considered it and was very tempted, but in the end, I decided against it for two reasons:
1) The additional cost would be over R$30,000, and that’s money I’d rather put toward renovating the new apartment.
2) The main reason: breastfeeding. I still want to have a second child someday, and I want to breastfeed. A mastopexy interferes a lot with the mammary glands and can completely compromise lactation. It was already challenging for me without the surgery; with it, I’d likely have to give up breastfeeding altogether. And I don’t want that. I see it as selfish. My breasts aren’t perfect, but they’re fine. If I plan to have another baby, I can’t take away the most natural and essential source of nutrition just to improve something that’s still good enough.
I cleared up some basic doubts, and we even touched on the case of Nathalia Cavanellas, who passed away, as well as another well-known influencer. I thought he would give me more reassurance about that, but honestly, he didn’t. So of course, I’m still very scared.
But everything is already set—scheduled, paid for, and there’s no turning back. Now it’s about moving forward with courage, head held high, and holding on to the belief that everything will be all right.
16/08 Chapter 431 Tiny Dancer
Today your dad took you to the park—the same one you had gone to with your preschool and little friends. He brought you back around 4:30, and I rushed you straight into the bath so we could get ready for Marina’s 15th-birthday party.
Since Thursday, you’ve been waking up with your eyes sticky and glued shut from pink eye. Last night you slept at your dad’s, and he told me your eye was still bothering you. Aside from that and your eternally runny nose, you seemed fine.
I was in good spirits while getting you ready, until my sister called to say Rafinha wouldn’t be coming to the party. He was sick, coughing a lot, and besides—it was really more of an adult party. He would have needed a phone in his hands the entire time just to stay put. Which meant it would just be you. And I knew exactly how that would end: you, bored to death.
Still, I tried not to let it dampen my mood. I dressed you up like a little princess, and you, so vain already, twirled in front of the mirror, completely enchanted with yourself. You even chose your own shoes.
For the first time, I didn’t invite your dad. I think I made the right call. We’ve been separated for nearly a year, but kept attending events together, traveling, doing everything as if nothing had changed. It only led to fights, to tension. If we want peace, we have to accept the truth: sometimes the only way forward is apart.
When we arrived, the buffet table looked beautiful. I filmed it—it was all delicious.
But you hardly ate. Just as I feared, you were miserable, sitting alone. You’re shy, after all; you only open up with me, your grandparents, Tayna, or Rafael. Anyone else who dares to approach you, you immediately turn your head away in embarrassment.
Eventually, I gave in and handed you my phone. You watched videos for most of the night. And I had to admit my sister was right—parties like this aren’t really meant for little ones. Honestly, you would have been much happier staying at your dad’s, running around and playing, instead of spending four hours glued to cartoons on a screen. I don’t mind you watching shows—but an entire party like that? That, I can’t help but think, is just awful.
Then came Marina’s dance with her grandfather and father. But it wasn’t even a waltz—the traditional dance every girl dreams of at fifteen. The whole party felt like any other gathering, nothing that carried the magic of a quinceañera, except for a giant LED number “15” glowing in the corner. That was it. I honestly thought she would at least change into a princess gown for the dance—I even saw the photos she had sent to my mom while trying some on—but no. It never happened.
Still, I found the dance beautiful. There’s something enchanting about that moment; it always feels like a scene from a fairy tale.
And for me, what made it truly magical was seeing Marina—the baby I once loved with all my heart, long before you were born—now stepping into womanhood.
When Marina was born, I was 18. I was going through one of the hardest phases of my life, with depression weighing heavily on me. Her arrival was a light in that darkness. I was already driving back then, and once or twice a week I would go to my grandmother’s house, where Marina lived at the time, just to see her. She was the most beautiful baby I had ever laid eyes on—blonde hair, blue eyes. I was completely captivated, and being with her soothed my aching heart.
As she grew, the magic of childhood slowly faded, as it always does. Children lose a little of that ethereal glow as they turn into kids. But in her first two years, I was inseparable from her. That bond never left me. So when I watched her dance that night, in my mind’s eye I didn’t just see a young woman twirling in front of everyone. I saw a little ballerina—the tiny girl who had been my very first love for a child—dancing her way into adulthood.
17-18/08 Chapter 432 What have we become?
Today was Grandma Simone’s birthday (59), just a breath away from sixty, which in Brazil is already considered “elderly.”
We celebrated with a simple little gathering at my parents’ house: an afternoon coffee with her side of the family. Everything felt calm, almost as if life was finally settling into place. You spent the day running around with Rafinha, laughing and playing, until evening came and worry replaced the joy. Both of you were coughing nonstop, and Rafinha even had a fever. Somehow, he managed to sleep through the night, but you stayed awake coughing, which meant your grandmother didn’t sleep either torn between watching over him and you.
The next morning, when we woke up, I asked your dad if he could stay home with you. At 3 p.m. we had the inspection for the new apartment — at last, I was going to step into my very own place — and my parents were eager to see it with me. Your dad agreed to stay, so off we went. I asked your father if he could stay with you because you were coughing too much and clearly not well enough to go to school. You had a feverish look, were struggling to breathe, and needed the inhaler with Aerolin every so often.
We got to his house around 2:30 in the afternoon, and that’s when he already started to get under my skin. All he had to do was stay with you for a single hour. But the moment he opened the car door and saw you asleep, looking sick and fragile, the first thing that came out of his mouth was:
“Great, you’re handing her over like this.”
And when he took you in his arms, he shook his head, silently judging.
In his mind, of course, it meant we hadn’t taken care of you properly, that somehow we had let you get sick. It drives me crazy. There’s no way you caught anything at the birthday party, not even from your cousin, whom you only saw on Sunday. How could you have gotten sick so suddenly, from one day to the next? Impossible. He just can’t seem to understand that since the previous weekend you were already showing signs of conjunctivitis, most likely from adenovirus, and it started with that before the other symptoms came along.
But in his distorted version of reality, my family and I were careless. In his head, he had given you back to us healthy on Saturday, and by Monday we were returning you sick. That’s exactly what he thought, and later on, he actually confirmed it.
Finally, your grandmother and I met up with my dad at the apartment. I was anxious to see our new home for the first time. Of course, it didn’t have much impact yet — without furniture, it’s still just empty space — but at least you can get a feel for it.
The kitchen and living room struck me as quite small, though the balcony more than made up for it. I plan to level it with the living room, and once I knock down the wall that separates the kitchen from the living area, the whole space will open up and look much larger than it really is.
One pleasant surprise was the extra balcony by the laundry area — such a clever addition. It even fits both a washer and a dryer, which is exactly what I wanted.
The view, however, was disappointing. It faces a cluster of rundown houses, almost like a tiny favela — but then again, São Paulo isn’t known for its beauty.
The hallway was narrow and cramped, but your bedroom felt spacious. Mine, in comparison, is only slightly larger yet oddly laid out. The bathroom in my suite, though, was impressive — big and open, with enough space to fit a bathtub inside the shower area.
Another perk is the private elevator that opens directly into a small hall just for us, which we’ll be able to decorate as our own little entrance. I really liked that. Now I can’t wait to start the process of filling it with furniture, bringing it to life, and turning it into a real home.
For days, your grandmother had been saying the balcony seemed small — about the same size as the one we already had — and that left me disappointed, because I had been dreaming of a proper gourmet balcony. But she was mistaken. Standing there myself, I could see it was actually quite spacious. And the balcony of my private room it was similar to the one I hava now. So imagine...
Another pleasant surprise was finding blackout shades installed in every bedroom — the same kind your father has in his place in Barcelona, which I absolutely love. These ones aren’t remote-controlled, but they close automatically with a simple switch. They even added an outlet so that, if we ever want, we can upgrade them to work by remote.
About an hour after the visit, I texted your father to say we’d come pick you up, but he replied that you had just fallen asleep and asked me to wait. The problem was, my mother was about to leave, and I would need to take the car, get stuck in traffic, and complicate everything. So I stood my ground and insisted I’d come for you anyway.
That turned into an argument over WhatsApp, and in the end, I blocked him for a few hours. With you sick and him blaming us for it, I couldn’t even enjoy the apartment as I should have.
Looking at our conversations lately, the way we’ve been talking to each other, I can’t help but wonder: what have we become? I never wanted it to be like this — and I never imagined it would, even after we went our separate ways.
20/08 Chapter 433 Wheezing in your chest, fear in my heart
It’s already Wednesday, and you’re still not getting better. This week has been school-free. Your grandma was so worried that she took you to see Dr. Humberto. He said your oxygen levels weren’t great, which is always a red flag, since it means you’re struggling to breathe.
He also heard wheezing in your chest, so he prescribed antibiotics. That gave me some relief. I felt certain the medication would sort things out, and maybe by Friday you’d be well enough to go back to school. Rafinha isn’t going either; he’s scheduled for surgery on his little pipi, just two days from now. We all know it’s a simple procedure — you had the same one yourself — but surgery is always nerve-racking. My mother even reminded me how she once lost a cousin at just seven years old during a routine tonsil removal, the very same surgery you had. Of course, things are much more advanced nowadays, but still, it lingers in your mind.
These past few days, my dad went off to the beach house for work, so my mom has been staying here with me for a couple of nights to help with you. It gave me a chance to rest a little, because every so often I need to check your temperature, set up the nebulizer, watch your breathing, or wake up in the middle of the night to give you antibiotics. My mom has always been right there for moments like this.22/08 Chapter 434 Broken inside with no place to go
The day started off on the wrong foot. At 6 a.m. my mom woke me up, worried that your breathing wasn’t improving and insisting we should take you to the hospital. I agreed right away, and just like that, the nightmare began again.
I suggested we try Oswaldo Cruz this time. I’d heard great things about it and thought it would be good to see for ourselves. But when we got there, the receptionist told us the hospital didn’t have a pediatrics department. It was the first time I’d ever seen a hospital that didn’t treat children. I knew children-only hospitals, but never adults-only.
They advised us to head to either Santa Catarina or Beneficência Portuguesa, both nearby. Santa Catarina was where Rafinha had been hospitalized when he was eight months old. My parents had a good experience there. But Beneficência Portuguesa was right around the corner, and I’d always been curious about it. Since it was close enough to walk from where we’d parked, we decided to give it a try. And honestly, we were pleasantly surprised. Sometimes the most famous hospitals leave us disappointed, while the ones less talked about end up exceeding expectations.
At first, we went through triage. It makes me happy that you don’t put up a fight anymore when they check your temperature and oxygen levels. I think you’ve realized it doesn’t hurt, so you stay calm now. The real challenge is always the blood pressure cuff; you probably think it will hurt as it tightens around your arm.
Your oxygen levels at triage weren’t great, so they gave you a yellow wristband for priority care. But the hospital itself was practically empty, and the pediatric wing had no one waiting, so we were going to be seen quickly either way.
We stopped to look at the fish tank before being called in, and it made you smile. Then the doctor welcomed us. She seemed really good—kind and attentive. She examined you, said there was no wheezing, but still ordered a chest X-ray and bloodwork.
The X-ray didn’t worry me much, but blood tests are always a nightmare. They break our hearts every single time, because you panic, you get hurt, and it’s just so hard. I was already feeling anxious, but my mom stayed firm, insisting it was necessary and would be quick.
Before the blood draw, you took five puffs of Aerolin, and then we headed to the lab. And it was exactly as awful as I feared and as I remembered. Four nurses had to hold you down, my mom tried to soothe you while holding you from the other side, and I held your legs. I couldn’t even look. I turned my face away, because watching them poke you and hearing your screams was unbearable.
They got the vein at first, but you moved, and it slipped out. Then they kept digging around for what felt like endless minutes while you screamed and your grandmother, clearly shaken, told them to stop. After all, the test was mostly to check for influenza. And really, who cares which virus it is? The treatment is almost always the same. Meanwhile, you kept crying:
“Stop, please stop! Take it out, it’s over, it’s over!”
Every word shattered me and your grandma.
By the time it was over, you were shaken, exhausted, and your breathing was fast again. It’s always the same… pure torment. When we went for the X-ray afterward, you calmed down. You’ve gotten used to it lately, since we tell you it’s just like taking a picture of your heart.
But my mom was still upset. She said blood tests should only ever be done on you in cases of real urgency and I couldn’t help but point out, “See? You used to insist it was necessary, but now that you’ve seen how much she suffers, you agree with me, don’t you?” She stayed quiet. Your father and I had witnessed this scene before; she hadn’t. Now she finally understood us a little better. Sometimes people only truly understand when they go through it themselves.
Right after the X-ray, we waited a little in the lobby until the doctor called us back. You were crying, begging to go home, and the doctor gently told you, “You’ll be going soon.” That gave me hope that the results would turn out fine.
But as soon as we stepped into her office, she said that although you weren’t wheezing much, your oxygen levels hadn’t improved and the test showed pneumonia in both lungs. You would need to be admitted.
It felt like a bucket of cold water thrown over us. My God, another hospitalization… your fourth one. It would have been the fifth if I hadn’t refused it once at Sabará. Still, it was far too many. We had hoped that as you grew older, we wouldn’t have to go through this anymore. I asked if it would be the ICU, and the doctor reassured me it wouldn’t, which brought a small measure of relief.
Even so, we insisted, asking if she could authorize another round of inhaler treatment to see if your oxygen levels might improve so we could take you home. We explained that your levels had probably dropped after the blood test, because of how nervous it had made you.
The doctor listened and said that anyone who knew her knew she was the last person to admit a child unnecessarily. She hated hospitalizations and only did it when it was absolutely necessary. She understood our fear, our trauma, but she was certain your levels wouldn’t improve. To ease us, though, she agreed to let us try another round, even if she truly believed admission was the only option.
We clung to that fragile hope and sat back down in the waiting room until they called us again for the inhaler. In the meantime, my mom made her calls, and I made mine. I had to call the clinic where my surgery was scheduled for the following Thursday, explaining that it might need to be postponed since you were being admitted that Friday. I wasn’t sure if things would settle in time.
My mom called her parents—my grandparents—and her sister to cancel their trip. I felt so sorry for them. Their plan had been to meet my dad at the beach house and spend a week relaxing together.
The plan had been to leave on Friday and come back Wednesday night, so I’d be ready for my surgery Thursday morning. My aunt Andrea, my mom’s sister, had been planning this vacation with her since the beginning of the year, certain we’d manage to get the beach house. She works a lot and only has time off during her holidays, so she hadn’t even seen our place by the ocean yet.
I felt bad for Andrea. She doesn’t have a husband—which isn’t an issue, I don’t either—but she also doesn’t have children, and that does make her life feel lonelier to me. Her happiness comes from doing things with her sisters: going to the movies, taking a trip, eating out. Her family has always been, and always will be, her parents and siblings. She had been looking forward to this trip so much. And of course, I felt bad for my mom too. She didn’t think twice before canceling her plans to help me with you because that’s in her nature. She could never enjoy herself knowing you were lying in a hospital bed.
She called my dad to let him know, and he said he’d come back right away. But she told him not to rush, that he could wait until the next day, since there wasn’t much he could do right then.
A second doctor came to see us, since the one who’d admitted us had already left. That’s the thing with hospitals—you finally feel comfortable with a doctor, and then suddenly their shift is over. This new doctor was just as experienced and capable, but stricter and more serious. When I explained what we’d agreed on with the previous doctor, she shook her head. With thirty years in pediatrics, she said there was no way she could discharge you in that condition, not with pneumonia in both lungs. I showed her the X-ray from Sabará, and she pointed out that case could’ve been treated at home, but not this one. She carefully went over the scans with us, showing exactly where the pneumonia was.
That was it. We were defeated. The battle lost. You were going to be hospitalized. The hardest part now was calling your dad. And of course, his first reaction was to scold me, and he was right. He asked why, if there was even a chance you might need to be admitted, they hadn’t just placed a catheter during the blood draw, so you wouldn’t have to go through the ordeal twice. And he was 100% right. How had I not thought of that? Now you’d have to be poked again, go through it all over again because of my failure to anticipate it. I was furious with myself. I’m your mom, I should have known better.
When it came time to insert the IV line, I couldn’t stay in the room. Unlike the blood test, this time I just couldn’t handle it. My mom had to be the strong one. I stepped outside, desperate for air, and broke down crying. I didn’t care who passed by or stared at me, I didn’t owe anyone an explanation. After a while, I wiped my face and went back in. By then, you were already in the observation ward, and my mom told me they’d managed to get the vein on the first try. That alone brought me a wave of relief.
After seeing you calm in my mother’s arms, with the oxygen mask on and the IV in place, I really needed some air. I told her I’d walk around and find something to eat, so I wandered through the streets for a while. Nothing really caught my eye, so I ended up in this little bar-slash-restaurant and ordered a simple plate of rice and breaded chicken. R$35 for a lunch box—not cheap, but fine, whatever.
When the plate arrived, regret came with it. The chicken was dripping with oil, a sad, soggy mess. I’m terrible at complaining about food—or anything honestly— so I decided to just eat it and get on with it—too much else on my mind already. But one bite in and I nearly gagged. It was raw. Completely raw. It instantly reminded me of something that had happened years ago at my ex-boyfriend Caique’s house, when his sister once fried chicken for me… I’ll tell you that story another time. But that memory hit me right then and there.
I tried chopping it into a thousand tiny pieces to see if it would go down easier, but no, there was no saving it. Finally, I had to say something.
“Sir, this chicken is completely raw.”
He picked up the plate with a quick “just a minute” and disappeared into the kitchen.
All I could think about was whether my chicken would come back covered in the chef’s angry spit or my lemonade, which hadn’t even arrived yet. But honestly, with you in the hospital, I couldn’t even care that much.
The chicken came back eventually, still awful, but slightly more cooked. It was technically edible now, so I ate the edges, the over-fried bits, and left the rest. In the end, the bill came to R$45 with the juice. I was so mad. I don’t mind paying good money for food if it’s actually good. But paying that much for something awful? That drives me crazy. Just like that restaurant we went to recently.
On my way back, still frustrated, I decided to treat myself to a pistachio ice cream, and at least that brought me a tiny bit of happiness in a day that had otherwise been a disaster.
By the time I got back, you were sleeping peacefully in your grandmother’s arms, and I felt myself finally exhale. We were still waiting in the observation ward when your father arrived, and the three of us took turns watching over you. At first, you were so quiet, completely worn out, sleeping for hours. It wasn’t surprising—so much stress, so much fear.
But then I overheard the mother in the next bed saying they had been waiting almost twenty-four hours for a room. My heart sank. Staying in the observation ward was miserable—just a curtain for privacy, other children crying through the night, everyone cramped together. Despite liking the doctors and nurses there, my mom and I started looking into transferring you to Sabará or another nearby hospital.
The man from the admissions department was kind enough, but he explained a few things to us:
-
By 7 p.m., they would know if more rooms had become available, so it might be worth waiting. Transferring hospitals is always stressful for a child, he reminded us.
-
If we started the transfer process that afternoon and a room opened up—there was only one person ahead of us, probably the mother next to us—we would lose the spot because we’d already be in the middle of the transfer paperwork.
-
There was no guarantee another hospital would have a room. They would try several until they found one, but it might not be the hospital we had in mind. Winter months filled every pediatric ward with sick children.
After thinking it through, we decided to stay. We were actually happy with this hospital. The structure itself was better than I’d imagined, and you were already settled, IV in place. Moving you to an ambulance, transferring you to a stretcher—it would only add more stress. It was better to let things be.
The only thing we couldn’t quite understand was why no one had checked your oxygen levels in hours. In this ward, unlike the others we had been in before, there were no monitors. When we asked the doctor about it, she explained that monitors were only for patients headed to the ICU. And it made sense. Every time you’d been in observation before, it was to go straight to the ICU, but this time wasn’t like that. A tiny baby a few beds away was hooked up to a monitor because he was being transferred to the ICU. Still, I thought it would’ve been good to check your oxygen now and then, just to be sure.
What surprised me most was how well you were handling the oxygen mask. You fussed a bit, asked to take it off once in a while, but there were no tantrums, no scenes—you accepted it calmly. The only thing that broke my heart was you whispering over and over that you wanted to go home…
Despite everything, you were eating—that alone was a wonderful sign. At one point, you were suddenly in the best mood, wandering up and down the hall, happily munching on two little chocolate cakes, laughing, content. When your grandmother came back from her phone calls and saw you like that, it lit her up completely. All we ever want is to see you well. And happy. Always.
Still, watching you go through yet another hospitalization, seeing you endure so much… it left me broken inside. There was nothing I could do, nowhere to run from it.
Night fell quickly. I told your dad and your grandmother to go home and rest—especially her, poor thing, she’d been keeping an eye on you since the night before, and we’d been in the hospital since eight that morning. I told them to come back the next day around noon so I could finally go home, sleep, and get a bit of rest myself. They resisted for a while but eventually gave in.
Your grandmother dropped your dad off at his place and then stayed at my apartment, since it was close to the hospital—and honestly, she hates sleeping alone in that big house with my dad away at the beach.
As for you and me, we spent the evening in your hospital bed watching the video of your second birthday party—the one you’re obsessed with. You’ve watched it at least ten times already, and it’s over half an hour long. You love seeing that party… and you’re already so excited for your third birthday.
We waited in the observation ward for hours. They kept assuring us that a room would be ready that night, but midnight came and went, and still nothing. A newborn baby was in the bed next to ours, and every time you cried, you woke him and his mother. By two in the morning, when it happened again, I finally went to the nurses’ station to ask about the room. It had just been cleaned for us.
We moved upstairs close to three in the morning, exhausted but relieved to finally settle in.
Even the night-shift nurses were kind and attentive. You fell asleep almost instantly, and so did I.
The room was bigger and more comfortable than any we’d stayed in before—even better than Sabará. It had a reclining armchair, a big sofa, and the hospital bed you slept in, where I ended up sleeping too. I decided to stay beside you because the bed wasn’t designed for children—the sides were open, and you roll around a lot in your sleep. I pushed the nightstand against one side so you wouldn’t fall, and on the other side, I wrapped my arms around you. We both collapsed into sleep after such a long, exhausting day.
23/08 Chapter 435 I'm growing tired
The morning started in chaos, and I felt myself slowly unraveling. I had asked your dad and grandma to be there by ten, but knowing them, I was certain it would be closer to noon. Meanwhile, doctors and nurses came and went all morning long, and with each visit you grew more anxious, more upset, until the tears came, and with them, my heart shattered into tiny pieces.
What terrified you the most was the catheter. No one was allowed near it. You panicked at the thought that someone might remove it. But every single medication—fluids, anti-inflammatories, antibiotics—had to go through that catheter. There were so many doses throughout the day that your stress rose in direct proportion to the number of treatments.
Each time a nurse came close with a syringe or an IV bag, you screamed, “STOP, STOP, STOP!” You’d always hated being held still, but now it was a thousand times worse.
The nurses, to their credit, were endlessly kind and patient. One even managed to get you to sit on his lap for a moment. Your fear of anything going into that catheter was so strong that you begged for medicine to be given by mouth or through your nose instead. You even tolerated the uncomfortable nasal flushes without tears, anything, as long as it didn’t go through that dreaded line in your tiny arm.
There were so many doctors coming and going that I finally called your grandma and dad in tears, begging them to hurry. I told them I had been with you through the whole night, but my nerves were fraying again, watching you suffer with no one else around. My mom apologized and said she was on her way. Your dad, though—rather than apologizing—blamed me, saying that they’d wanted to stay last night and I didn’t let them. Sigh…
This whole thing is exhausting, these endless respiratory issues, this emotional roller coaster when it comes to your health. It’s not the sleepless nights or even the hospital itself. It’s watching you suffer. I’m growing so tired of it all because it feels like nothing I do can make any difference.
You were already traumatized before, and now it’s a thousand times worse. You scream, you refuse to let anyone touch you, you keep yelling “stop” over and over again.
The nurse I liked the most was Caio. I’ll always remember him. He held you on his lap. At one point, he picked up the IV bag, and you shouted, “Put that away! Put it away now!” I honestly have no idea where you even learned that phrase—how you knew what it meant. You had never said it before. And somehow, that hit me even harder.
Despite all the stress and everything you were going through, I was amazed you were still managing to eat a little. The only thing was your hair—tangled from sweat and nerves, in desperate need of a bath. But giving you one at that moment would’ve been complicated. So when your dad and grandma arrived, I asked her to handle it.
I hugged you, kissed you, and then headed home. I needed to eat, shower, and sleep, just enough to recharge before facing more long hours at the hospital.
The moment I got home, I devoured four fogazzas with pastel dough, took the most glorious shower while watching The Summer I Turned Pretty—my new tv show—and then collapsed into bed for four solid hours. By the time I woke up, it was already past eight in the evening.
I checked the camera and there you were with your dad and my parents. Grandpa had driven back from the beach and straight to a toy store, where he spent over R$500 on Elsa and Anna dolls for you, R$250 each. He brought you Elsa that night and promised to bring Anna the next day. The same doll in San Diego? U$10. Here? Over R$250. Ridiculous. But with all the taxes piled on top of everything here, I guess it wasn’t surprising. Grandpa wasn’t the type to splurge like that, not even for us when we were kids. But for you? He didn’t think twice. Drove back from the beach, spent money we really shouldn’t be spending right now, just to make you happy.
When I called, you started crying for me. I didn’t hesitate, I grabbed the car keys and rushed back. My dad had told me it was time for me to come anyway, since you kept asking for your mom, but I was already on my way.
I felt recharged, ready to face everything again. Amazing what a little rest can do for the soul.
When I got to the hospital, they told me everyone had been wonderful with you, except the new nurse on duty. She wasn’t exactly mean, but she wasn’t warm either. There’s always one, isn’t there? Every place has that one person: school, work, hospitals, even families... someone who just doesn’t fit the kindness or are aligned with the rest.
Grandma said you’d been quiet, withdrawn, not even interested in the Elsa doll Grandpa gave you (maybe because you already had the same one?) She said she hoped you’d like Anna better the next day. Poor Grandpa…
I thanked everyone and stayed with you again, holding you close. We watched your birthday videos, some cartoons, shared a little chocolate cake Grandma had brought, and together we faced the long night of doctors and nurses coming and going.
24/08 Chapter 436 Moral scale
The next day, my parents came to take over for me and your dad. They arrived around lunchtime; your dad decided to stay a little longer, and I drove back home. This time, we noticed you were in much better spirits, especially when you saw Anna. That doll made you so happy, and in turn, it made Grandpa even happier.
But unlike yesterday, I didn’t manage to rest at all. I got home later than planned and jumped straight into work, catching up on countless customer orders that had piled up since Friday’s unexpected hospitalization. A few days away, and suddenly everything felt overdue. I packed as much as I could and handed most of it over to the delivery guy before the evening was done.
Meanwhile, my parents spent the whole day with you. And that’s exactly why I let things slide, little things I’d normally care about, like too many sweets, too much TV, or the endless pampering your dad disapproves of.
I guess, as humans, we all carry our own moral scales, constantly weighing things on both sides. My parents do so much for me, for you, even for your dad in the past, that the few things we might not agree with fall on the lighter side of the scale. The positive side always outweighs the negative by so much that the balance tips so far in their favor it’s not even a contest.
But your dad, well, I’ve talked to him about this before, his moral scale feels skewed. He takes fifty good things and five bad ones, yet somehow those five weigh heavier for him than all the rest combined. It’s as if his scale is wired wrong, letting the negative side crush the positive, no matter how much heavier the good should be.
Gratitude isn’t something you can teach. I can’t give you a step-by-step guide on how to be grateful or how to weigh your own moral scale. What I can do is warn you, give you clues, little reminders so you can always check that scale and let it guide you.
Take, for instance, the moral scale of my first uncle—the one I wrote about in the previous chapter. I remember feeling conflicted about him so many times, trying to convince myself that maybe he “didn’t mean it,” because he was also the cheerful uncle, the one who smiled easily, played with us, took us to buy sticker packs for our albums at the corner shop.
On the positive side of his scale, you had things like the jokes, the family trips to his farm, the little treats here and there. But on the negative side was the fact that he was a predator who harassed me. Even if there had been only this one thing on the negative side—which there wasn’t, but let’s set that aside—it would still outweigh all the small, frivolous positives by an immeasurable amount. One single act of that weight crushes ten, a hundred lighthearted moments. And that’s the thing: sometimes one negative carries far more weight than a whole pile of positives.
Now, when it comes to your dad, my parents’ moral scale is completely different. Their positive side not only has far more items, but each of those positives carries heavier weight than the few negatives. That’s why one of your father’s flaws is ingratitude because when someone’s moral scale is out of balance, they tend to lean toward being ungrateful, sometimes even selfish. That’s why so many people make those famous “pros and cons” lists, it’s nothing more than putting the moral scale down on paper.
I kept wishing your dad would one day stop and really look at his own moral scale, see all that my parents have done and continue to do for us, and truly feel the weight of it. But I think I’ve given up on that hope. I’ve started to understand that a moral scale is something private, deeply personal. We each have our own, and we have no control or even the right to adjust anyone else’s.
After yet another day of my parents helping in every way they could, I returned to you. Tonight, my mom would stay with us, keeping us company through the night.
That afternoon, a doctor came by and said she wasn’t sure if you’d be discharged yet, since you still couldn’t stay off the oxygen for long. But by evening, before I even arrived, they had removed it. They checked your oxygen levels several times, and you were going to spend the night without it—a huge step toward the possibility of going home, maybe as soon as Tuesday. We went to sleep holding each other tight, both of us hopeful that things would finally turn around.
P.S. You finally showered, though it was a quick one because you screamed and fought it the entire time. Your grandmother barely managed to get through it, and washing your hair was simply out of the question.
25/08 Chapter 437 Singing your way home
This morning, we woke up to a bit of good news. The doctor who came to check on you said the wheezing was gone, and you no longer needed the oxygen. She was ready to discharge you, unless, of course, we felt uneasy about it.
We talked it over for a while and agreed that as long as they prescribed the antibiotics for home, you were well enough to continue your treatment there, especially now that your oxygen levels were back to normal.
But before finalizing things, the doctor returned, saying she wanted to run one last chest X-ray just to be sure. We were actually relieved she suggested it. Off we went again, exposing you to yet another round of radiation. You’ve had so many X-rays already that I can’t help but wonder what kind of long-term effects all this might have. And yet, we know they’re necessary. It’s a tough balance...
We did the X-ray and waited in the room for a while until a nurse—who seemed to be the head nurse—came in and announced that we were officially discharged. We asked about the X-ray results, and she told us the doctor had already reviewed them: your lungs were clear, no more antibiotics needed.
We were stunned. Just days ago, both your lungs were full of pneumonia, clearly visible on the scans, and after only three nights on Rocephin, you were suddenly “cured.” I couldn’t help but comment,
“Wow, this antibiotic works miracles.”
The nurse, clearly in a good mood, replied,
“Oh, it does. When someone comes in with leptospirosis, we use it too, it works wonders.”
So there we were—relieved, grateful, and overjoyed. Not only were you going home, but your lungs were clear, and we wouldn’t have to put you through any more days of those heavy-duty antibiotics.
But that’s when things started to get confusing. Just as we were about to meet your grandpa and head home, I received the prescription on my phone—nowadays doctors send everything digitally—and it listed both antibiotics. My mom and I were baffled. The nurse had sounded so sure when she said otherwise.
I went looking for her to clear things up, but in that short time, she had already left. And guess what? The doctor had too. I think both the doctors and the nurses had switched shifts.
The next nurse I asked seemed just as puzzled. She suggested that maybe what the first nurse meant was that you were done with the hospital antibiotic (Rocefin) and the doctor wanted you to continue only the other one at home, since Rocefin is administered only in the hospital.
Still feeling unsure, I told my mom, and she tried asking yet another nurse but same vague answer. Honestly, given all this confusion, there was one simple thing they could have done: call the doctor. Just a phone call. But for reasons beyond me, they refused.
We pushed for it, but they wouldn’t budge. So on our way to the elevator, we asked yet another nurse, who insisted we should follow the prescription because the doctor’s orders outweigh the nurse’s.
What worried us was the possibility that the doctor had prescribed both antibiotics before discharging you, then, after seeing your lungs were clear, decided to skip them but forgot to update the system.
But I guess we’ll never know since no one thought it was worth making a simple call to the doctor.
So we left, frustrated, and the entire way home I kept trying to call the hospital’s main line for more information.
But your improvement was undeniable. My mom and I had been worried because when you woke up this morning—and even as we left the hospital—you seemed down, quiet, withdrawn. Yet the moment we got in the car, you started singing Borboletinha, clapping your hands, making it crystal clear to everyone that you understood you were finally leaving that place behind. The happiness just poured out of you. There’s no denying it anymore: hospitals drain you.
After picking up your medication, we went to my parents’ house. Your mood had lifted, but by the afternoon there was still a shadow lingering. We all noticed it. We talked about it amongst ourselves, saying we would do whatever it takes to make sure you never have to be hospitalized again. My dad said your little heart wouldn’t be able to handle it a second time.
It broke us to see how shaken you were. Giving you a bath—something you’ve always loved, splashing around in the tub—turned into a battle. And now, no one can even touch you without you flinching. It hurts to see you like this.
27/08 Chapter 438 As ready as you can be
After all the emotional exhaustion from the hospital, the day of my surgery finally arrived. Luckily, they were able to admit me the night before. Since the procedure was scheduled for 6 a.m., it made much more sense to already be there, prepared, than to wake up at 3, rush to the hospital by 5, and start surgery at 6.
Grandma and I left home around ten that night, leaving everything ready so Grandpa could stay with you and put you to bed. While he was there tucking you in, we were on our way to something that would either change my life for the better or leave me regretting it forever if anything went wrong.
We got there close to midnight. Check-in was quick, and the nurse explained that at 5 a.m. she’d be in to give me a fast shower and get me ready to head to the operating room. So yes, I’d get only a few hours of sleep, but at least it would be better than none at all.
I held Grandma’s hand, we told each other everything would be fine, and we got ready to rest.
Am I ready? Well… as ready as I can be.
28/08 Chapter 438 And then there was nothing
At 5 a.m., they rushed in, telling me I had to jump in the shower immediately because it was time to head to the operating room. For heaven’s sake, I had already showered at home, but fine. They insisted on using their own special antiseptic wash on my skin. Sigh.
Then came the warning: under no circumstances could I get my hair wet—not a single drop—or the surgery would be canceled. Seriously? Why take the risk at all, then, by making me shower again? Soon after, I slipped into the hospital gown, hugged my mom, just as I had already hugged your dad, my dad, my sister, my nephew, and, of course, you. We kissed each other tenderly, and she told me everything would be fine. Surprisingly, I felt calm. With your unexpected hospital stay and the whirlwind of days leading up to this, time had flown by so fast that we hadn’t even had a chance to be anxious about my surgery. In a way, that helped.
The nurse wheeled me into a small waiting room where I’d meet the doctor before heading into surgery. My mom walked alongside until they stopped her, and I told her not to worry, that I’d be with her again soon.One by one, the nurses introduced themselves while Dr. Rafael sat calmly in a chair, waiting, smiling, confident, as the team bustled around getting everything ready.
The anesthesiologist asked if I was feeling sleepy yet.
I said no.
And that’s the last thing I remember.
Then—nothing but darkness.
When I finally opened my eyes, slowly, cautiously, I found myself in what looked like a recovery room. There were other patients around me, the soft hum of monitors in the air. I could feel my body again, piece by piece. And my very first thought was: I’m alive. I’m going to see my daughter.
I remember calling out to the nurses a few times, though I can’t recall what I said. I was groggy, words probably tumbling out in fragments that made no sense. I don’t even clearly remember being wheeled back to my room—just faint flashes of movement, of things gradually falling back into place.
At some point, I drifted off again. But when I woke, I woke to a thirst unlike anything I had ever felt before. My mouth was dry, my whole body parched, as though I hadn’t had water in days. I drank endlessly—glass after glass, the entire day—and still, the thirst refused to leave me. By the end, I had downed nearly 6L of water, something I had never done in my life.
I told my mom I felt like that dry, cracked sand at the beach—the kind kids try to turn into a tiny pool, running back and forth with buckets of water from the ocean. But the moment they pour it in, the sand gulps it down greedily, leaving no trace it was ever there. That was me. Every sip of water disappeared as if I hadn’t had a drop in days. I kept asking for more, and more, and more.
29-30/08 Chapter 439 And then there was nothing
The doctor came by in the morning and, since everything looked good, told me I was ready to go home. He asked if I’d been using the “respiron” (a device where you inhale deeply until all three tiny balls rise to the top) and I said I was doing my best. He replied that I need to do it 10x every 15 minutes, except when you’re asleep. Every fifteen minutes? Seriously? Ain’t nobody got time for that!
He discharged me right after lunch, and off we went home. I was even a little surprised at how flushed my cheeks looked—rosy, like I’d put on the perfect blush. I felt beautiful. Of course, by the next day, the glow had completely faded.
We stopped by your dad’s place to pick you up, and I hugged and kissed you like I hadn’t seen you in ages. But you barely noticed me because the moment we got to my parents’ house, Rafinha was there. You two played all day long, and honestly, that worked out perfectly for me. I spent the entire afternoon sleeping. I was beyond exhausted, but relieved too because I’d made it through the surgery without complications.
Still, I knew the next two weeks would come with a fair share of nerves, every twinge sending me into panic mode. The first 48 hours are always the hardest, they say. So my survival plan had three phases: first, make it through the surgery. Second, survive the next 48 hours. And finally, get through those 15 long days ahead.
The very next day, things took a turn, and not for the better. I spent the entire day feeling nauseous, barely able to eat a thing. The only thing I could keep down was Gatorade. Water, which I had guzzled like a camel the day before, now made me queasy. By evening, the nausea had gotten so bad it started to worry me.
Before the surgery, the doctor had set up a WhatsApp group called “Post-Op,” so I sent a message explaining how awful I felt. The reply? To keep using that wretched breathing device and drink plenty of fluids. Seriously? I had just said I was feeling horribly nauseous so how on earth was I supposed to chug water or do lung physiotherapy with that tube in my mouth? It was impossible.
But it was like I was speaking another language. No one seemed to understand, not even my parents. They just kept telling me to stay calm, try to sleep, rest… For heaven’s sake, I was miserable, and no one was taking me seriously.
My sister tried calling the doctor, but he wouldn’t pick up. That alone made her furious. A few minutes later, he finally texted back: “I’m putting my kids to bed.” That was it. And that only made her angrier, I was a patient who had just come out of surgery, clearly unwell, and he didn’t seem to care.
A little while later, he messaged me asking if I had taken my Venlift—one of the meds we had listed before surgery. I told him I hadn’t, not since the operation two days earlier, but that I would. Still, I knew my symptoms had nothing to do with that. Missing one dose—even four, as I once did while waiting for a new prescription and never left me like this.
Eventually, I hit my breaking point. I begged my parents to take me to the hospital, and they finally agreed.
By then, my sister had already gone home, so we tried calling her but no luck. She was the one who would have to stay with you; we couldn’t take you to the hospital with us.
The moment I stood up to leave, I vomited. A lot. And it hurt like hell. The kind of pain that makes you scream inside because every heave pulls on the fresh stitches across your abdomen. I felt like everything inside me was ripping apart. It was excruciating.
Oddly enough, the nausea eased afterward but that didn’t calm me down. Vomiting after lipo isn’t just unusual, it’s a huge red flag. My mind instantly went to the darkest place: the sister of my former boss. She’d had lipo, went home, started feeling sick, returned to the hospital… and never came back.
Was the same thing happening to me? Would I become part of that tiny, less-than-one-percent statistic? No. No, it couldn’t be.
