If someone had told me a week ago that I'd see Rafael laughing with my father at the table of my childhood home, I would have called it a delusion.But there he was… at ease, confident, talking as if he had always been part of my family.
And maybe that was what confused me the most.
It was easy to lose myself in him when we were alone. The hard part was realizing that, little by little, he was stepping into parts of my life I had never shared with anyone.
As we cleared a few things from the table together, I felt a kind of recognition, as if it were clear—to me, and maybe even to him—that some line had been crossed… and there was no going back.
And I couldn't tell whether that made me more scared or happier.
When we finished tidying the kitchen, Rafael dried his hands on the dish towel, glanced toward the living room, and smiled faintly.
— I'm going to watch the game with your dad — he said simply, and disappeared down the hallway.
I took a deep breath and went to my parents' bedroom. I found my mother folding clothes calmly, as if she were slowly reclaiming control of her own house.
— Want help? — I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
She shook her head lightly without stopping the motion… until she did.Then she lifted her eyes to me.
— Are you happy, sweetheart?
I frowned automatically.— I am… you're okay, you're home…
— That's not the kind of happiness I'm talking about — she interrupted, with a smile that already gave everything away.
She tilted her chin toward the living room.
— I see the way he looks at you. The care… the calm… it's like he always knows where you are. And you always know where he is, too.
Heat rushed up my cheeks so fast I didn't even try to hide it. My mother laughed softly.
— I like him, you know — she said, going back to folding the shirt. — And apparently he's already won your father over too.
I tried to take a deep breath, but my words stumbled over each other:
— Mom… we're, I mean, me and him… we're still, I don't know… getting to know each other. It's not exactly like that… I mean, it's not so—
She raised her hand, cutting my sentence in half, exactly like she used to when I was a kid inventing useless excuses.
— You don't need to explain anything to me, Helena. — Her smile was calm, certain. — I just need to know that you're happy. That's enough for me.
My chest tightened in a good way, but she continued before I could answer.
— And one more thing — she said, putting the clothes away in the drawer like she was closing an important subject. — Your father and I are fine, you can see that. There's no reason for you to stay here, missing class… and making him miss it too.
— I already told him to go back — I argued, a bit defensive. — It's just that he—
— He's not going back without you — she interrupted, with that calm confidence only a mother has. — It's written all over his face, my girl. You just have to look.
I felt my face burn again. She laughed, satisfied, like someone who had just solved a puzzle.
And then it was clear—there was no point arguing. She was really sending us back.
And maybe… maybe deep down I also knew it was time to go. To get back to life.
— Okay… that's fine, I'll go back. — I smiled lightly. — But I'll come visit more often, okay?
— Your father and I will love that — she said, touching my arm gently. — Now go tell him. Poor thing, he's probably been waiting for your decision since yesterday.
I rolled my eyes, laughing, and went to the living room.
Rafael was on the couch, slightly sunk into the cushions, talking with my father about some player they both hated. When I got closer, he looked up at me.
— My mom… — I began, tucking my hair behind my ear. — She convinced me it's better for us to stop missing class. I think… we should go back later this afternoon.
Rafael opened his mouth to answer, but my father jumped in first, raising a finger—the classic I know what I'm talking about gesture.
— Ingrid is absolutely right — he declared, as if he were the judge of the situation.
My mother walked into the living room at that moment, crossing her arms as if to confirm the verdict.
My father went on:
— And hey, I haven't forgotten. You and I still have to schedule that soccer game. — He pointed at Rafael. — As soon as I'm feeling better, I'll call you and Joaquim to spend a weekend here. We'll play, barbecue… — he smiled, mischievous — after all, now that you're on your way to being part of the family…
The air vanished from the room.
Rafael's face turned red in a second. Mine burned just as fast.
— DAD! — I cut in, muffling my voice with my hands, as if that would reduce the embarrassment.
He looked at me, confused, then at my mother.
— What? Did I say something wrong? — he asked, genuinely innocent. — Ingrid told me…
— I only said they like each other! — my mother shot back, laughing. — The rest you invented all by yourself, Paulo.
— Well, but it's heading that way, isn't it? — he insisted, winking at Rafael, who looked like he wanted to disappear into the back of the couch.
I covered my face with both hands, wanting to vanish. Classic family humiliation… the kind that sticks, but doesn't hurt.
When the conversation in the living room finally cooled down and my parents started arguing about which of them needed more pillows, Rafael stood up quietly and murmured:
— I'll pack my things in the bedroom… we can leave whenever you want.
I got up right after him without thinking—my body just followed.
As soon as we entered the room, he turned toward me and asked:
— Do you… really think we should go back today?
I nodded.
— I do. They're fine. And… it's time for us to get back to our routine.
He took a deep breath. He seemed to accept it, but there was something in his eyes that made it clear that if I changed my mind, he would too.
— Thank you — I murmured. — For everything. For coming with me. For… being here.
He just looked at me.
And I felt that shiver. The familiar one.
Before I did something stupid that would make me blush until next year, I took a quick step to the corner of the room.
— Wait. — I walked past the pouf where I always sat to listen to music, placed my hands on its edges, and dragged it a bit away from the wall. — I wanted to show you something.
He frowned, curious, and stepped closer.
The wall appeared. The scribbles, the crooked lines. The drawings I had discovered were his.
Rafael stopped immediately.
— I… — he tilted his head, almost out of breath. — I can't believe this still exists.
A small smile slipped out.
— I drew on everything — he murmured, running his fingertips over the marks. — My dad would scold me… but my mom thought it was funny. She said she'd let it be, that the wall was my gallery.
He chuckled softly.
— I had forgotten. — He whispered. — All of this… really forgotten.
I stayed quiet. He seemed to be looking at it like someone opening a drawer that had been closed for years.
— When we moved… — he continued — I thought you'd paint everything. I never imagined that one day someone would… look at this.
— I looked. — I said softly. — Many times.
He looked at me, as if that meant more than I intended.
— Helena… — he said.
But before anything could slip out—words, gestures, confessions—my mother called from the living room:
— Sweetheart! Come here for a minute!
I took a deep breath.
— We'll finish packing later — I said quickly, leaving the room before the moment swallowed me whole.
And I left Rafael there, facing his childhood wall… facing a part of himself he didn't even remember anymore.