Hearing that old nickname, the heat, traffic and sparkling windows of Casa D’Ouro seemed to disappear.
For a moment, you were no longer a sixty-year-old exhausted woman, sitting in front of one of the most exclusive restaurants in São Paulo with worn sandals and a wrinkled fifty-robe bill in hand.
You were again that woman from a small village inland, where the sun was whitewashing the dirt roads and the children learned from a young age to ask for help without appearing a burden to anyone.
And in the center of that memory was a boy with bony shoulders, eyes too big for his face and a scar next to his eyebrow, a memory of a fall against a broken fence.
Your fingers trembled in his hands.
Now he was older, of course.
Higher.
Wide shoulders.
Dressed in a perfectly crafted dark suit that probably cost more than you earned in several months.
But his eyes were still the same.
And that's what just broke you.
Those eyes kept the same mixture of gratitude and caution as the child who used to stand in front of your kitchen saying he was not hungry while staring at the food pot.
“Marquinhos?” you whispered again, as if repeating it could prove that the world had not gone mad.
He let out a trembling breath that sounded halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“Yes,” he replied. It's me.
Then he looked at the bill trapped between your fingers, the piece of cardboard you were trying to give you air and the sun that burned your shoulders while the heated luxury of the restaurant shone behind the glass.
Something changed in his expression.
It was not just sadness.
It was the kind of anger that appears when someone sees something sacred being humiliated.
Behind the glass, Estela noticed movement near the entrance and turned her head.
First he showed a slight discomfort.
Then confusion.
And finally something much more unpleasant when he understood that the restaurant owner had stopped to talk to you instead of passing by like powerful men were supposed to do.
He partially got up from the chair, still holding his glass of wine, and frowned.
Marcos didn't even look at her.
He took off his suit jacket and placed it on your shoulders before you could protest.
The lining was cool and smelled slightly of cedar and something elegant that you could not identify.
“Why are you out here?” he asked.
The answer was already written on your face.
“I came with my employer,” you explained. He told me to wait here.
You tried to smile.
