Natascha Martins: To my daughter Melanie (November 2025)

02/11 Chapter 468 Let it spark a new flame

The day had finally come for me to meet you. We left São Paulo a little before 1 p.m. We couldn’t leave earlier because we had rented the house to a group of young guests who were staying for just one night and wouldn’t check out until 2 p.m., so arriving before they left would’ve been pointless.

We’d never walked into the house right after guests checked out, without the cleaning in between, so we had no idea what to expect. And since it was a group of young people celebrating a birthday, we had every reason to be a little nervous.

It was me, my parents, and Great-Grandma Sonia. The drive was peaceful, filled with conversation, no traffic, no surprises.

When we were getting close, I texted your father, and he replied that he’d be there soon. Meanwhile, we inspected the house, and to our surprise, everything was in pretty good shape. Hardly anything was dirty, the dishes were washed, the trash had been taken out. We were honestly impressed, especially considering it was a group of young adults. I wasn’t that surprised, though; before accepting any Airbnb guest, I always check their history and read the feedback from other hosts. And in the one review this guest had, she already seemed responsible. They even mentioned she took out the trash.

But, as usual, when something seems too good to be true, there’s always a catch. Later, we realized they had taken the charger for my dad’s JBL speaker—the one he left available for guests as a little extra gesture.

And the whole thing was so ridiculous. She lied, we eventually found out, and for no reason at all—because it would’ve been so simple to just tell us the truth. She sent me a WhatsApp message saying, “Nati, we just left. Thank you for everything. We left the JBL cord in the little box.” When we arrived, we checked the key box and it was completely empty. I sent her a photo, and she replied, “Hi! We thought it’d be better to leave it inside, where it originally was. Sorry, but it’s there on the same support, ok?”

But then… why on earth did she say they had left and placed it in the box, if she was supposedly still inside the house when she “decided” to put it back where it had been? And more importantly, if they changed their minds and left it in the original spot, why didn’t they send another message correcting the first one?

Anyway, at that point we still weren’t suspicious of anything. We just went to look at the support outside. Nothing. I sent another message, this time with a video showing the empty spot, and she answered, “Nooo. That support is closer to the barbecue area, right? We left it on the support by the entrance, where we found it.” So off we went to check the entrance support. The only charger there wasn’t the JBL one, it was my dad’s. He already knew they had taken it. I was still naïvely hoping it would turn up somewhere in the house. It didn’t.

My dad ended the whole discussion by ordering a new charger, spending around R$40. And honestly… how does someone ruin their reputation over a R$40 charger? I’ll never understand.

He told me not to rent to that guest again, not because of the charger itself, but because they lied. A previous group of young guests had left the place dirty and messy, and they broke some wine glasses my mom liked. But they were honest about it and even offered to replace them. This group, on the other hand, left everything spotless… yet committed this unforgivable little offense. Between the two situations, we’d still prefer the first one.

So we decided to just let it go and wait. I didn’t want to bring up the missing charger until she left her review, because so far every single rating we’ve received on Airbnb has been five stars—every one of them—and keeping that streak matters. It took days and days before she finally submitted her review. Only then did I leave mine. I was fair: I wrote that they left the house clean, took out the trash, washed the dishes… but that we had a small issue with a missing JBL charger. Nothing but the truth.

What should she have done from the very beginning? Sent a simple message like, “Hey, I’m a little worried, did you find the cable? Everything okay?” But no. She didn’t ask anything, didn’t check in, didn’t even pretend to care because she already knew we wouldn’t find that cable. And that’s when the pieces finally started to fit together.

Less than an hour after I posted my review, she suddenly messaged me: “Hi Nat, good afternoon! Did you manage to find the speaker’s cable?” And of course, she attached a screenshot of my review.
I replied, “Hi Anna, I’m good, and you? No, we didn’t find it. Someone must have taken it by mistake, thinking it was a phone charger.”
She answered: “I’m fine. Oh no… We noticed the cable was missing before we left and started looking for it. We left another cable that none of us recognized as ours, but I’m not sure if we accidentally took the one that belonged to the house. A friend of mine left his in the same spot where the other one was. Sorry anyway!”

Give me a break. Seriously???

First she says they left it in one place, nothing there. Then she doesn’t bother asking about it for days. And now she suddenly claims the cable “got lost,” that they “searched everywhere,” and because they couldn’t find it, they supposedly left a random cable as a replacement???? Please.

Why didn’t they tell us this right away? Why make up this entire story instead of sending a simple, honest message like: “Nati, we took the JBL to the beach—or wherever—or we used it and now during checkout we can’t seem to find the charger. What should we do? Should we buy a new one? Can we transfer the money to you?” That would’ve been so much more honest, mature, and respectful.
And to top it all off: her friend didn’t leave any “replacement cable.” There was nothing.

I honestly don’t think they did it out of malice, and I don’t think it was theft. Nobody ruins their reputation over something so cheap. The real issue was the LIE and the OMISSION. The charger costs practically nothing compared to the wine glasses the previous guests broke—glasses my mom loved, rare ones that you can’t even find anymore. And yet, those guests were sincere and immediately told us what happened.

She, on the other hand, burned herself over something so stupid. The only thing she had to do, her only responsibility, was to contact us right away and explain what happened. That’s it. These things happen; people lose things, break things… it’s completely normal. But she was so afraid of being honest, so terrified of losing points or credibility, that she ended up doing something ten times worse.

If I hadn’t left that review, I never would’ve known the truth, that the cable was lost, that they supposedly “replaced” it (which they didn’t), and that the whole story was just a patchwork of excuses.

Honestly… what a mess.

I replied to her politely—more politely than she deserved—explaining that she had never mentioned the cable was lost. She had simply said they left it in a certain spot and never reported the real situation. I even offered her a bit of advice: next time, she should just be honest from the start. And honestly, if she had simply messaged me saying, “Nati, we misplaced the JBL charger. Can I buy another one?”, she would’ve earned five stars without a second thought. The house was spotless, and we never would’ve charged her for the cable. But I guess she learned her lesson. She never responded again.

After that, we decided to stop leaving the JBL speaker for guests. We’ll buy a cheaper one, something basic that works, so the guests can still enjoy music, but nothing expensive anymore. Sadly, a few people ruin things for everyone else. They take advantage, and those who would use things responsibly end up paying the price.

And that’s something that happens a lot in life: many people are punished because of the behavior of others. Many lose privileges not because of what they did, but because of what someone else did first.

Take Brazil, for example. Here, you can’t simply return a product and get your money back the way you can in the U.S. Because if that were allowed, people would use the item, wash it, keep the tags on, and then return it. No doubt about it. Not that this never happens in the U.S., but there, it’s the exception. Here, it would become the rule.

In the U.S. and in Europe, there’s something called “refill.” At McDonald’s and many other restaurants, you pay once for your drink and can refill it as many times as you want. That doesn’t exist here. Why? Because people would take advantage of it. The one time someone tried offering refills in Brazil, you know what happened? A bunch of idiots showed up with water-cooler jugs—the big ones—and filled them up, trying to cheat the system. And I think they even got away with it. So of course the restaurants canceled the refill idea. Who could blame them?

That’s the thing about Brazilians: they want to take advantage of everything. Every little thing. And it’s ugly. Not everyone is like this, of course, but the honest ones end up suffering because of the fools who lack character. And in the end, the whole country misses out on things the rest of the world enjoys.

Anyway, not long after that you arrived with your grandparents, and I hugged you so, so tightly. Your hair, as usual, was a mess, greasy and neglected. Every time you spend a few days with your dad, your hair comes back like that. He doesn’t bother with shampoo, conditioner… he says he doesn’t like using them. I’ve tried explaining that you’re a girl, and girls care about these things, but talking to your father is often the same as talking to myself. :D

You hugged me so tightly, and then you wrapped your arms around Grandpa and Grandma too. Almost immediately, we sat down to play with the little wooden Disney dolls I had brought for us to paint together.

We played outside for quite a while, even though the weather was gloomy and a light drizzle came and went. Your grandparents told me the weather had been terrible the whole time you were here. But what really worried me was when your father mentioned you’d had a low fever these past few days, and that you’d been complaining a lot about stomach pain.

By then, it had been almost two weeks of this lingering feverish state, and that definitely wasn’t normal. It had me really concerned. He said he didn’t want to tell me sooner because he didn’t want to worry me, and that overall you were fine, playing, active, in good spirits… but still. Two weeks?

And you were on antibiotics for your ear, and that night would mark 72 hours since you started them. You’re not supposed to have any fever—or even feel feverish—after 72 hours on antibiotics. Yes, this medication was through the ear, milder than the usual ones, but still… I was worried.

Dr. Humberto said that if you were alert and playful, we could wait until the next day to see if the fever finally broke. But if you seemed tired or off, then we'd need to take you in right away. Ai, ai… The vaccine helps, sure, but it isn’t magic.

While I was there worrying, you wouldn’t stop saying you were hungry and wanted “fish.” Over and over — “fish, fish, fish.” And you only say you're hungry when you really mean it. So I asked your dad if they had fed you properly. Since his parents can go an entire day without eating, I had a feeling you might not be eating enough. And he confirmed you’d only had breakfast, though you did eat well then. So we all headed to the burger place next to my parents’ house.

When we got there, they were out of salmon, the only fish on the menu. So guess what happened? You ended up eating nothing but French fries, to your father’s absolute despair. But he let it go. After all, we had just arrived, everyone was together at the table, the atmosphere was nice… He decided it wasn’t worth the fight.

Stan’s parents — especially his dad, your grandpa Armand — loved the place. He even said it was one of the best meals he’d had in Brazil. Wow. The burgers are good, yes, but I don’t think they’re all that. I’ve definitely been to better burger joints. But the one I ordered — with brie and pepper jelly — was delicious. Actually, I’m obsessed with brie and pepper jelly. Always have been.

But after you ate, you grew so quiet… almost limp in my arms, and that’s when my worry spiked. Your father tried to reassure me, saying that he’s usually the anxious one and that this time he wasn’t, so I didn’t need to be. He insisted you were just tired, on the verge of a nap before we arrived. And, sure enough, you fell asleep on my lap right there at the table.

So we used that little moment of peace to chat and enjoy our meal. Later, though, your grandparents wanted ice cream, and my dad insisted on waking you up so we could all go together. Even your paternal grandparents tried some—everyone except your dad.

On the way back, my mother made me incredibly proud. She stopped and bought a crepe for a homeless man who had been asking for food. I’ve always believed that no one should ever be denied something as basic as food, water, or a bathroom. The complicated part is that many people on the streets ask for money not to eat, but to buy alcohol or drugs, so handing out cash feels like a shot in the dark. But if someone asks for food—actual food—that we should never refuse.

Later that night we finally settled in, and you drifted off, but your little body was still running warm. That’s when I decided that, in the morning, I’d take you to the hospital. What drives me crazy is knowing exactly how it usually goes: they’ll probably order tests, and bloodwork is always the worst part for you. It takes at least five people to hold you still, and every time it breaks my heart.

Once you were tucked in, and since your dad was still working, I planned to go to bed early too,maybe around 11. But as soon as I went upstairs, he followed me and asked if I wanted to play a game of chess, the one I had brought with us. And I said yes.

At first, I was doing great, like I always do with your father. It’s a whole pattern at this point. I start strong, confident, completely in control… and then somehow I lose my rhythm, get distracted, and he ends up winning. This was the third time I played chess with him, and the third time I lost.

Before playing with him, I had never lost a chess match to anyone. My ex and I used to play all the time; our matches were always neck-and-neck, but in the end I’d win. So of course your father teased me endlessly about it.

When we finished, I headed to bed, but he said he wanted to talk and asked me to step outside with him. We talked for a bit, nothing deep, and then I went back toward the stairs. But he stopped me again, asked me to stay a little longer… and that’s when I started to think he had something else in mind. I didn’t say anything, though. We just kept talking about random things, drifting from one subject to another, until the whole house was quiet and everyone was asleep.

When we finally went back inside, I tried to go upstairs again, and once again he stopped me. And let’s just say we had a brief remember, a moment of nostalgia, a tiny spark from old times. But let me be very clear: we are not back together.

Maybe my new body has something to do with all of this. Haha. But well, a flame was there, even if only maybe one night.

I just hope tomorrow turns out to be a sweet, fun day. By the end of it, we’ll be heading back to São Paulo.

03/11 Chapter 469 Our lives

Today the weather still wasn’t great, but at least it didn’t rain, so we managed to enjoy the day. My dad wanted to drive to Barra do Sahy, a beach about ten minutes from where we were staying. None of us had ever been, so we all agreed to go in two cars.

When we arrived, the town felt almost abandoned, exactly the kind of place my dad loves. He even joked that he bought a house in the wrong neighborhood. But for me, it was too empty. The markets were tiny, there were no inviting restaurants, no places to wander or sit or explore. Definitely not somewhere I’d want to live or buy a house.

We stopped by a small river where there was a tiny playground with a couple of swings. Your dad and your grandmother played there for a bit, laughing like kids, and then we headed to the beach. It was nearly deserted, no kiosks, nothing but sand and water stretching from one end to the other. All your grandparents decided to walk along the shore, so it ended up being just me, your dad, and your great-grandmother.

And honestly, it was wonderful. While your great-grandmother rested against a thick tree branch, the three of us had one of those rare pockets of quality time together. Your dad and I spent ages jumping over the little waves, and you refused to stop, you wore us out completely. We collected shells, splashed around, and played for at least an hour. It was simple, but special. The kind of moment kids remember years later without even knowing why.

I think that, even though your father and I aren’t together, we’re doing a good job raising you together. And maybe part of the peace between us right now comes from the fact that neither of us is with anyone else. If one of us started dating, there might be resentment, arguments… who knows. All I know is that, for now, neither of us wants to get involved with anyone.

Your grandparents took forever to return, they had walked all the way to the end of the beach. We were just about to head back ourselves because you were tired and asking to leave, but they eventually came back, and we all walked to the cars together.

Back at the house, your grandfather started preparing a barbecue before we headed back to São Paulo. And since you hadn’t had any more fever that day, I decided to wait until tomorrow to take you to a private doctor, hoping to avoid unnecessary stress, especially blood tests, which are always traumatic for you.

The barbecue was full of sausage, bread, and picanha. You ate some this time, but not with the same appetite or excitement as the last time. Maybe the meat wasn’t as good, or maybe you’re just not feeling well. That has to count for something.

What you have been loving lately is bread with honey. Our Brazilian “pão francês”, which, ironically, doesn’t exist in France. I don’t know why we call it that. Just like “French fries,” which also didn’t come from France. Anyway, you absolutely love pão francês with honey. I think it’s a terrible combination. I love honey, I love pão francês, but together? Never.

It’s the same way people here love fried banana. I can’t stand it! I don’t like bananas to begin with, so fried banana with rice and beans is unthinkable. Some people even eat pasta with beans, and that’s another combination I can’t get behind.

But, like I said, there’s a taste for everything. People have unusual preferences for food, relationships, clothes, lifestyles, everything. And all we can do is respect that.

We hit the road close to eight in the evening, which was perfect because we avoided all the traffic. You slept almost the entire drive, only stayed awake for the first forty minutes because I put on Disney songs for you. Then I switched to my playlist (I love my road-trip playlist, and your father loves it too). You protested for a minute and then drifted off. The drive was peaceful. There was some fog on the mountain road that made everyone a bit tense, but I felt calm, I could see fine, and I’m used to driving in fog. I’m a good driver. Your grandfather Armand kept guiding me, holding the phone for directions.

Not that there’s much mystery to that road, you drive in a straight line for kilometers. The GPS only becomes useful once you get near the city. Though I admit, on the highway, it helps with the speed-trap cameras too.

We reached São Paulo a little after eleven. The trip was calm despite the fog, though as we approached the city your grandmother grew anxious about the exits. I told your father I feel like if I miss a turn, she’s going to hit me. We both laughed. He said your grandfather complimented my driving, apparently he was impressed.

We stopped for gas and your grandparents insisted on paying. You kept sleeping peacefully.

Then we dropped them off at your dad’s house. You woke up for a moment; they kissed you goodnight and told us they would stop by in the morning before heading to the airport. They were flying back to Barcelona tomorrow.

After that, it was just you and me heading home, and I worried you wouldn’t sleep because you had napped for so long in the car. But, to my surprise, just like last time after a beach trip, you asked to go to bed. I put your pajamas on, gave you your medicine, and even though it took you a little while, you eventually fell asleep.

I think sleeping in a car feels the same as sleeping on a plane: you’re technically resting, but the position is uncomfortable, so you wake up feeling even more tired. Traveling wears you out. I never slept much during road trips, but on airplanes I know exactly how exhausting it feels.

And that’s how we ended the day—two sweet, peaceful days at the beach, shared between your father’s family and mine. And your dad and I actually getting along. Not because of any “relapse,” but simply because we haven’t fought or argued in a long time.

04/11 Chapter 470 Our lives

This morning your grandparents and your father stopped by to say goodbye. Goodbyes are always a little sad, especially for your dad. I wish we all lived in the same place, it would make things so much easier. You would be happy with all your grandparents close by, and he would be too.

After, I managed to take you to a private doctor today, and thankfully everything looks fine. He only ordered a urine test and a stool test just to rule out a few possibilities. The urine test will be easy… the stool test, on the other hand, is going to be tricky, because he wants three samples.

Later, you came with me to my parents’ house so I could quickly pack a few client orders, and I took the opportunity to bring Dodó home. My sister has her hands full with Aquiles right now, so I thought it would help.

But on the drive back, Dodó meowed the entire way — literally nonstop — and almost drove me insane. You too, apparently, because at one point you looked at me and asked:
“Mommy, can we leave him outside?”
As in: on the street.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.

05/11 Chapter 470 Not where the storyline ends

I managed to take you to a private doctor today, and thankfully everything looks fine. He only ordered a urine test and a stool test just to rule out a few possibilities. The urine test will be easy… the stool test, on the other hand, is going to be tricky, because he wants three samples.

HAHAHAHAHAHA.
Of course you don’t understand the danger of the streets, or what abandonment means — you were just completely fed up. And honestly, it was hilarious.

I’m going to tell you Dodó’s story.

During the COVID pandemic, when the whole world was in quarantine, your father spent a few months living at my parents’ house — back then, I was living with them too. And it was shortly after I brought Balu and Simba home that Dodó appeared in our lives.

It happened one night when your father and I were out walking Zeus and Aquiles on my parents’ street. It’s a great neighborhood for walking dogs, so we went out peacefully, just taking them for their usual nighttime stroll.

As we turned the corner, Zeus suddenly stopped and started sniffing obsessively at the metal cover of a storm drain. We kept tugging on his leash, but he refused to move, completely fixated on whatever was down there. Your father and I crouched down to see what on earth he was trying to show us, and that’s when we saw it: a large cat inside the drain, looking injured, one paw seeming hurt.

We tried everything to get him out, but nothing worked. So we took the dogs back home, partly for the cat’s safety, since Aquiles was with us, and we used the opportunity to call my sister, hoping she might be able to help.

We went back, but he was terrified, and getting him out of there was almost impossible. So we called the condominium security, and they drove over to help. They arrived quickly, but it took a tremendous amount of effort to get him out. Even our neighbor showed up to try to assist. In the end, only the security guards managed to do it, and the moment they freed him, he bolted out of there at the speed of lightning, absolutely terrified.

From a distance, we could see that his paw was still attached, but the entire area up to his shoulder was purple and being eaten away by maggots. If he didn’t have that leg amputated — and fast — he would die from infection.

Once the security guards had done their part, they headed back, and the rest of us — your father, my sister, the neighbor, and me — tried to catch him. But he was quick, smart, and impossible to corner. We tried everything until eventually we lost sight of him altogether and returned home defeated.

I was heartbroken. I knew that if we didn’t help him soon, he wasn’t going to survive.

Your dad tried to comfort me, but I was devastated and worried sick about that poor cat. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we had to try again, so I convinced him to go back out with me to look for him. We spent almost forty minutes searching, your father walking deep into the brush with the headlamp my dad had lent us, scanning every corner.

But nothing… not a sound, not a shadow, not a sign of life.

I came back even more defeated than before. Even knowing I’d done everything I could — that I returned, that I tried every possible way to rescue him, it didn’t make the sadness any lighter.

I went to sleep with that heavy feeling in my chest.

But destiny didn’t want the story to end there — and so it didn’t.

Your father told me that the next morning he would go for a run and look for the cat again, checking all the nearby areas. I didn’t have much hope; I honestly didn’t think he would find anything. And, in fact, he didn’t.

But later that morning, Bárbara, our neighbor, sent a message to my sister saying she had found him and, after a lot of effort, managed to catch him. He was badly hurt, and she asked if we could come get him. Of course we did. I was so relieved… we finally had a chance to save him.

My sister took him straight to the veterinary hospital, and he came back without his leg. They had to operate because the infection was too advanced, though a small stump remained. Poor thing… he was terrified and aggressive, and who could blame him? Imagine a street cat, five to seven years old, who had survived on his own his entire life, suddenly being chased by strangers who then amputate his leg. He couldn’t possibly understand that we were trying to help him. From his point of view, all he knew was pain and fear.

His leg had been eaten away by worms, yes, but that wasn’t all. One of his ears was torn, as if bitten. The tip of his tail was broken. He was missing an eye. We don’t know where he lost it, or how his tail snapped, but one thing was certain: he had been through a lot. Too much.

His fear said everything. It reminded me so much of Snowbell… every time we tried to pet him, he would twist downward, lowering his head as if expecting a blow. Snow used to do the same. It’s the reflex of someone who has been hurt too many times, people do it too, especially children.

And whenever we picked up a broom to sweep the house, he would panic, sprinting away as fast as he could. He carried so many signs of physical abuse, and it was clear that whatever violence he’d endured hadn’t been mild. I’m also certain he’d been attacked by other animals, maybe another cat, maybe even a dog.

He had survived everything alone… until the day fate put him in our path.

In the beginning, we never imagined we would end up keeping him. My sister and I had rescued plenty of street cats before, and we always managed to find them a home afterward. Dogs were different, we’d only rescued one, but cats were many, because adoption is so much easier. And offering temporary shelter to a cat is nothing like fostering a dog, especially since most small dogs are purebred and rarely need rescuing.

At first, he was tense and aggressive. I remember filming a video to promote his adoption, and while I was petting him, he suddenly smacked my hand so hard that I had to put ice on it afterward. He really didn’t trust anyone. We knew that finding him a home would be more complicated than usual. Most cats I’d rescued before were kittens — much like in an orphanage, everyone wants a baby — and they come without a fully shaped personality, without trauma, without a past.

But we couldn’t rush his adoption anyway; we were caring for his injured leg, and that required time. In reality, my sister was the one who handled his bandage changes, she has a natural talent for that sort of thing. But in those first days, changing the dressing hurt him terribly, and he began to resent her. In his mind, every time she approached, she was coming to “hurt” him. He couldn’t understand that she was the one keeping him alive. Their bond was the hardest to build.

Eventually, one or two people showed interest in adopting him, but as the weeks passed and we continued caring for him, we all grew deeply attached. Despite his aggression and silence, we watched him change a little more each day. At first, he still recoiled from touch, but he liked being near us. I think he finally felt safe — really safe — and realized we weren’t going to harm him the way others had.

Convincing my mother was the hardest part. We already had six cats. I had just taken in Balu and Simba. But some things are simply meant to be. Dodó was meant to be ours. And he’s been with us ever since, all the way back to 2019.

And I can say with absolute certainty that today, he is the most affectionate cat I have, and have ever had. Sometimes he’s overwhelming: he’ll climb onto our laps, press his face against ours, and refuse to move. He loves being held, loves being around us, loves being carried like a baby.

I remember it took years before I saw him play for the first time with a piece of dental floss. He never played with anything, no matter how hard I tried, and the day I finally saw him chase that little string, I actually got emotional. Watching Dodó transform was beautiful. Even now, sometimes he still curls inward when we reach to pet him, momentarily forgetting that he’s safe. It’s rare, but it happens. Every now and then he’ll give us a swipe too — nothing like the first one — and yes, he can be a bit dramatic. But he loves us. Sometimes he asks for affection, and after a while he gets overstimulated and bites… but he also gives these delicate love bites, the soft little nips that only he does. He’s a special cat — and a very chubby one now.

Dodó is with us because of Zeus. And he bonded beautifully with Simba and Balu. Oliver, on the other hand… those two will never be best friends.

10-15/11 Chapter 471 Glow with pride

This was the week we opened my little thrift shop, a project shared between me and my aunt Rosely.

I knew from the start that things would move slowly, and that was fine. Still, my mind has been racing with ideas on how to make everything better.

On the very first day, we didn’t sell a single thing. Completely expected: no one even knew we were there yet.

On the second day, though, my aunt told me that when she lifted the shutters, a woman was already waiting outside, hoping to find some dresses. And she did. She bought two, which made my aunt’s whole morning. But she was the only customer that day. Even so, throughout the week we managed to sell a few more pieces. By the end of our first seven days, we had made roughly R$650. Considering that each of us invested R$750 to get things started, one of us has practically already recovered her entire share.

And all of that happened without a real grand opening, without any advertising, and with the shop barely up and running. As people discover us — and like what they see — they’ll come back. I know they will.

Our most enthusiastic customer so far has been my grandmother, Celeste, who spent R$150 in the shop. She’s adorable. I have a few new ideas I want to share with you soon. I think they might really work. Even with the slow start and the small number of customers, I feel genuinely proud and fulfilled. It feels like the beginning of a new chapter in my life.

I love working, I love selling, I love being an entrepreneur. And I love earning my own money — money that comes from my effort, my hustle — so I can enjoy it later and spoil you as much as I want.

16/11 Chapter 472 l will always love you

Today I want to tell you a little about Achilles.

Or, as I affectionately call him, Kiki/Quiqui or Godão.

He arrived at our house as a tiny ball of fur. He was so cute. Ridiculously cute. He looked like a plush toy that had somehow come to life. My sister rescued him from a kennel in another city. He even came with a small green number marked on his ear, a kind of tattoo. I try not to think too hard about how much that must have hurt him, because it makes my blood boil.

But despite all the cuteness, Achilles was not an easy puppy.
He was… filthy. He ate his and olled in his own poop. On one of the first days, my mom had him in the back seat of the car for something I can’t even remember, and he pooped back there — and as the car moved, he kept sliding through it, smearing it everywhere. A complete nightmare.

And besides being gross and happily eating vomit and other forbidden snacks, he had a habit of biting everyone’s legs. Everyone. He was a menace, and I promise I’m not exaggerating. One day my sister was so overwhelmed that she actually cried — HAHAHAHAHAHHA.
But I have one very sweet memory: he used to get stuck between the hallway steps, trying to reach the TV room or the kitchen, and he didn’t know how to jump yet. And when he finally tried, he gave the tiniest, cutest little hop.

As the days went by, he improved. And he grew fast — faster than Zeus. Achilles turned into a calm, gentle dog. My sister hired a trainer for both of them, and Achilles learned quickly (German shepherds really do). To this day, he follows all the basics: sit, lie down, kennel, come, stay, shake, give the other paw...

And then there are the phrases that make him completely lose his mind: Ball? Want food? Want to go for a walk? Who’s here? He sprints off to investigate.

Achilles has always been especially attached to Rodrigo and my sister. At that time, her whole world revolved around the dogs — no cats yet, and Toddy had already passed away. They went everywhere together. My sister and Rodrigo spoiled them endlessly.

Achilles and Zeus were real brothers, inseparable. The rare times they fought were always over food. And even then, I can count those fights on one hand. Once, when Rodrigo tried to break one up, Zeus accidentally bit him. It was awful, you’re not supposed to physically intervene. Water, noise, whatever… but no hands in the middle.

As Achilles got older, he changed. He stopped tolerating strangers. Anyone he didn’t already know was treated like a mortal enemy. Whenever someone came over, it was a disaster, he’d bark like he was possessed, drooling, furious, ready to defend his kingdom.

Still, he had his circle: us, my parents, Caique, Roberta (before she distanced herself), Maria, Bete, Zé, my grandparents, Cuca’s family… and Rodolfo, who basically forced Achilles to accept him.

Eventually, Achilles became a guard dog, not because we trained him for it, but simply because that’s who he became. So we adjusted.

But some incidents worried us.

Maria, who adored the dogs, leaned down to kiss him and he bit her face. We rushed her to the hospital. It left a small scar, and she never let her guard down again.

Another time he bit my grandmother in the kitchen. It could have been worse if my dad hadn’t grabbed him.

And then he bit my sister, the worst case. She needed more than thirty stitches in her scalp. She had hugged him from behind to give him affection, and he reacted.

I was in San Diego when it happened. My mom told me later how shaken Rodrigo was because there was so much blood.

To my surprise, my dad understood. He said she had startled Achilles, and they didn’t blame him. I was terrified my father would snap, but he stayed calm. From then on, we were more careful.

There was a phase when Achilles growled at me constantly, as if I had some bad spirit attached to me. My dad was restraining him once while he snarled at me, and I said, “Achilles, it’s ME.” And he tilted his head, confused — you?? It was bizarre. Thankfully that passed, and now we’re pure love again. At eight years old, he’s much calmer, though he still growls at my sister from time to time.

But honestly… she changed. After she met her current boyfriend (unfortunately), she stopped being present. Stopped walking them, loving them the way she used to. Everything shifted. Rodrigo’s absence — who Achilles adored — hit him harder than anyone realized. Dogs feel things. Maybe this was one of those cases.

With my parents, though, he has never had a single issue. He’s obsessed with my mom. When I came back from my two trips, he greeted me with all the love in the world, tail wagging like crazy.

Achilles LOVES playing ball. But he doesn’t actually want you to throw it. His game is making you try to take it from his mouth, which is huge, by the way. He runs in circles just to tease you.

Another passion? Food. He is a bottomless pit, absolutely unhinged when it comes to eating. Once, my mom bought an expensive walnut pie to celebrate something. When she went to get it — gone. The entire pie, packaging shredded around the house. Not a crumb left.
Walnuts are toxic to dogs. We were so worried. But he was fine. This was when he was around one year old.

Another time I brought home half a Mr. Texas pizza — the fancy kind — planning to eat it the next day. The next morning there was nothing left but a mutilated box. I was FURIOUS.

He really is a troglodyte. If you don’t put him outside when you’re eating, he’ll keep pawing you until you surrender and give him food, and once you give in, he never stops. And his paw hurts. It’s basically a lion’s paw. This dog has weighed EIGHTY kilos. Everywhere we go, people refuse to believe he’s a German Shepherd because of his size, but he is. Just… an XXL version.

On walks he’s calm, unless someone tries to pet him, then he snaps. But if people keep their distance, he’s fine. He used to hate other dogs on the street, but now he barely reacts.

He always had one floppy ear. Technically both, but sometimes one would perk up, the other never. Unless he’s extremely alert, then both pop up, which is rare and hilarious.

Whenever he needs medicine, he hides in the kitchen corner beside the cabinet. He hates vets but loves Dr. Horácio. Achilles struggles with dermatitis and licks his paws until they bleed. We suffered with that for years, until my grandmother suggested aloe vera. A miracle. His paws are much better now.

He LOVES going for walks, but age and weight have caught up with him. His joints hurt. The ramp at home is a battle. After a walk, he drinks a liter of water without pausing.

Whenever I scream because of a bug, he comes running to “save me” by eating it, then spitting it out. It’s adorable.

He barks like crazy whenever he sees our cats from afar. If one escaped, Achilles would kill them instantly. It’s awful to think about, but it’s true.

He has ear infections too, poor thing. He basically has everything. But he is deeply loved.

When I was in San Diego and told people what happened with Tayna, everyone from other countries said that in similar cases, even if the owner didn’t want it, the dog would be put down. If you show up to a hospital with a dog bite and they find out it was your dog, they’ll euthanize him. I was shocked. If Achilles had been born somewhere else, he might not even be alive today.

He truly got lucky, and so did we. Because despite everything, Quiqui is an incredible dog. Protective, loyal, always nearby. He doesn’t like too much cuddling like Zeus, but he always wants to be close.

He loves staying in the kitchen with us. Loves belly rubs when his dermatitis flares, ear scratches because of the otitis. He’s anxious, pacing if he’s in a place he doesn’t know.

He also has this hilarious habit of closing the kitchen door with his paw — every time. And whenever we say his magic words — ball or walk — he tilts his head in that impossibly cute way.

He’s gigantic — my lion, my bear, my baby. Sometimes I even hop on him like a little horse. He tolerates everything.

Once his dermatitis got so bad we had to shave him completely. When we arrived at the pet shop to pick him up, the groomer said, “No, this one isn’t your dog,” and honestly, we believed him. He was unrecognizable. I still feel guilty for not recognizing my own dog, but he looked NOTHING like himself. The fur grew back fast, thank God.

We’re always scared about his bones, his weight, and the day he might not be able to stand up anymore.

Achilles was the perfect name for him.
And I love this dog with all my heart.

When you were born, we were terrified of letting you anywhere near Achilles, and the same went for Rafinha. With his history, we had every reason to be cautious. He had already bitten Maria, my grandmother, my sister… even me once. So from the start, we doubled our attention around you and Rafael, always on alert.

But, thankfully, he never showed the slightest sign of aggression toward either of you. Not once.
And we even have a photo of you and Achilles together — a little reminder that, despite all our fear, that moment was pure peace.

Well… now that I’ve told you a little about Achilles, I need to share the heartbreaking part:
my four-legged baby, my lion, is gone.

I woke up a little earlier than usual — I don’t even know why — and reached for my phone. There was a message from your aunt that simply said:

“Achilles died.”

I called her immediatly, and she told me that when Rafael woke up, he found Achilles already gone, and rushed to wake her. I broke down. I let myself cry — really cry — letting the weight of grief pour out of me.

A few seconds later, I heard tiny footsteps coming toward my room, watching me, unsure, and then retreating back to your bed. So I wiped my tears and went to check on you. You were sitting there quietly, looking embarrassed, unsure if you should come closer, maybe thinking you had done something wrong.

I sat beside your bed, told you what had happened — even though you’re still too young to fully understand — and I hugged you.
The kind of hug I desperately needed.

Over the last month, Achilles went through more than any animal should. Some time ago, he had already undergone a complicated surgery after eating fabric — they removed a shocking amount from inside him — and, unfortunately, it happened again. But this time he was older, and the surgery took a tremendous toll on him. His recovery was agonizing. He stopped walking, and when a dog of his size can no longer stand, things become very complicated. He would pee and poop on himself, and my sister became his full-time nurse. And when a dog stops moving, little by little, the organs begin to fail. It’s heartbreaking and painfully complex.

Day after day, we watched his health decline. Countless hospital visits, endless ups and downs. He was suffering, truly suffering. You could see it in his face: the pain, the constant trembling, the stillness of a life reduced to lying in one place for twenty-four hours, wet and uncomfortable. It was devastating.
But we held on. We fought the idea of euthanasia with everything we had. It’s such a delicate, excruciating decision. You never want to feel like you ended your pet’s life — or anyone’s. And if you follow a religion, the decision becomes even heavier.

In the end, we didn’t have to choose. Life made the decision for us, and in a way, that was its own kind of mercy. Even through the grief, the aching emptiness, we knew he was suffering. We knew Achilles wouldn’t have lasted long like that. He was already old; twelve is the usual lifespan for a German Shepherd. The surgery only sped things up. But because we had been preparing ourselves little by little, watching his struggle, a part of us knew… this was the kinder ending. Even so, it still hits hard. It always hurts.

I spent the whole day heartbroken. I stayed at the shop to distract myself. My mom and my sister came by, and as soon as they arrived, we fell into each other’s arms and cried. All three of us. It was the kind of embrace we all desperately needed.

They buried Achilles around noon, but I didn’t go. I couldn’t. If it were up to me, he would have been cremated. The idea of burial fills me with panic. Being placed underground, the thought unravels me. It feels like… I want to pull the person I love back out. I don’t want time to pass and watch their body slowly break down into bones, or imagine insects consuming what’s left of them. It makes me desperate. Desperate.
I want to be cremated one day, never buried. Just writing this makes my eyes sting, imagining my little boy underground, his fur fading, his body being touched by things I don’t even want to name. It isn’t fair. Death isn’t fair. What happens to the physical body after we die is horrifying.

Rest well, my baby.
Thank you for all the years of loyalty, of companionship, of love.
I love you, wherever you are, my little star.