Thiago Carvalho never imagined that the cruelest sound of his life wouldn’t be the screeching of brakes that afternoon on Marginal Pinheiros, but the silence that followed.
A thick, sticky silence that seeped through the cracks of the mansion in São Paulo and lingered there, sitting on the sofas, hidden behind the curtains, breathing inside every room.
Since Fernanda died, Thiago lived as if the house were a museum of his grief: immaculate on the outside, broken on the inside.
He would wake up at five in the morning without an alarm, with the same nightmare repeating itself like a punishment: the out-of-control truck, the impact, the screams… and then the emptiness.
He would open his eyes and for two blessed seconds believe it had all been a dream. Then he would look at the side of the bed where Fernanda had been… and the truth would crash down on him like a wall.
He got up because he had no choice. His daughter, Alice, was all that remained of that accident. She was eleven months old when it happened. The doctor spoke of spinal injuries, of damaged nerves, of words Thiago didn’t want to understand. But he understood one phrase as if it had been tattooed on him: “She may never walk.”
The house filled with equipment, adapted chairs, and toys that no longer brought the same joy. Before the accident, Alice moved like any other baby: kicking her legs, twisting to reach her feet, laughing when Fernanda kissed her tummy.
Afterward, her little legs seemed foreign, as if they belonged to another child.
Thiago held his daughter in his arms, and although she was as light as a feather, she weighed on him like the entire world.
The first few months were a mix of business meetings and baby bottles, million-dollar contracts and diapers. Thiago tried to be two people at once: the tech entrepreneur who couldn’t stop his company and the father who couldn’t stop his grief.
His partners gently suggested he take a leave of absence. He would smile and say, “Yes, I’ll think about it,” but deep down he knew the truth: working was the only thing keeping him going. If he stopped, the sadness would consume him.
There were also the others: the employees who came and went.
The first one left after three days, saying she “wasn’t ready.” The second, seeing Alice crying and the list of care items, said she had “a family problem” and disappeared. The third lasted a week. The fourth, two weeks.
The fifth left with tears in her eyes and a phrase that stuck with Thiago: “Lord, I can’t take this on.”
Each resignation felt like another act of abandonment. Not just of Alice, but of hope itself.
That’s why, when the doorbell rang that Tuesday morning, Thiago barely got up. He thought it was a messenger, a delivery, anything. But when he opened the door, he saw a slender young woman with dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail.
She was wearing faded jeans and a white blouse so clean it seemed to defy the world. She was about twenty-five years old and had eyes that didn’t ask permission to exist: eyes of quiet determination.
—I’m here for the job—he said with a rural accent. —I saw the ad.
Thiago looked her up and down with the distrust that pain had taught him. Inside him, a voice repeated: “Don’t trust her.” Another replied: “But you need help.”
He let her in. He explained bluntly: his wife had died, his baby was paralyzed, and he needed patience, constant attention, and genuine affection. He told her he’d had many employees before, and they’d all left.
He also told her the truth he hadn’t dared to say aloud: that he didn’t know how much more he could endure.
The young woman listened silently, without interrupting, without showing pity or fear. She simply nodded. Then she asked:
—Can I see her?
In the room, Alice lay awake in her crib, staring at the ceiling with those brown eyes she’d inherited from Fernanda.
Thiago always felt a pang when he saw those eyes because they reminded him of what he’d lost. The young woman approached slowly, as if the air might shatter.
—Hello, princess —he whispered.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
