Letícia’s jaw tightens. “You think I wanted to disappear?” she asks, voice low. “You think I woke up one morning and decided to ruin you for fun?”
Isabela’s eyebrows knit together, confusion turning to fear. “Mom, what is he talking about?” she demands. “What do you mean, disappeared?”
Letícia closes her eyes, and when she opens them, you see resignation, the kind that comes after carrying a secret too long. She looks at Isabela, and you see love there, fierce and exhausted. “Because if I told you,” Letícia says, “I would have to tell you everything.”
You feel your stomach drop. “Tell us,” you say, and you hate how selfish it sounds. But you also know the truth is a locked door and you are done living outside in the rain.
Letícia motions toward the small kitchen table. It’s chipped at the corners, covered with a plastic cloth patterned with little flowers that look too cheerful for the heaviness in the room. You sit, and the chair creaks as if it isn’t used to men like you. Isabela sits too, arms crossed, eyes sharp, ready to fight the universe if it tries to lie to her.
Letícia doesn’t sit at first. She paces once, then stops behind Isabela, resting her hands lightly on the girl’s shoulders. That touch is both anchor and apology. “Sixteen years ago,” Letícia begins, “I was three months pregnant. I was happy. And then I learned something I wasn’t supposed to learn.”
Your brain scrambles through old memories like a filing cabinet on fire. “What?” you ask.
She laughs once, humorless. “Your company,” she says. “It wasn’t just technology. It was power. And power attracts men who think love is a weakness they can exploit.”
You open your mouth to deny it, but you remember the early days. The investors. The backroom meetings. The threats disguised as offers. The way you learned to buy silence because silence was cheaper than war. You remember one name, and the memory tastes like metal.
Letícia says it before you can. “Marcos Vieira,” she spits, and the room goes cold.
