1
Recife, Brazil, 1989
Nate
“You realize once I take this ring off, I’m never putting it back on again,” I say to Iris.
“I’m well aware,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if that wasn’t the goal.”
I set the ring on the table, my gaze drifting to the stack of papers. One signature. That’s all that’s left. Years of my life. Months of separation. All reduced to a scribble of ink. Before I look like I’m hesitating, I sign.
“I’ll be in touch about the kids,” I sigh.
“Don’t forget they’ve got swimming lessons. And they need new uniforms too.”
“I know. We’ve covered this,” I say, running a hand through my hair.
Daniel and Beatriz. Our little kids. The real collateral damage.
“I’ll probably arrive around nine this Saturday,” I add, moving toward the door.
She hands the paper to the lawyer without looking at me. “Okay.”
I head for the elevator, eyes fixed straight ahead. I can’t get out of here fast enough.
I’ve cried my share of tears over this marriage—mostly for my kids. I fought for Iris, tried everything to patch it together so Daniel and Bea wouldn’t grow up in a broken home. But she’d been gone long before today. One foot out the door, chasing some version of freedom I couldn’t give her.
How do years of marriage boil down to this? Adventures and love, reduced to separate rooms and moving boxes.
I moved into the apartment a few weeks ago. It’s beautiful—high above the city, sweeping views of the ocean. Recife: sun-drenched, sprawling, always expanding. High-rises lining the shores.
Thankfully, the lawyer’s office is close. I’m home within five minutes. I step out of the elevator into silence. As always, the place feels too big. Too quiet.
All I want is to hear the sound of my kids tearing through this hallway. I want to tell them to keep it down just so I can hear them laugh harder. I want Bea to climb into my lap—still small enough to fit there—and roll her eyes while I remind her no boy will set foot near her until she’s thirty. I want Daniel next to me on the couch, comparing football stats before bed.
But in Brazil, the courts rarely favor the father—especially not over a mother who says she wants out. It doesn’t matter that I was blindsided, or stable, or desperate to raise them. It doesn’t matter that I stayed.
I slip off my shoes and collapse onto the couch.
“How did it go, boss?”
Camila walks into the living room, concern stitched into her brows. She’s been with us for years—our housekeeper. But she’s more than our housekeeper, she’s a part of the family.
I let out a long breath.
“That bad, huh?” she says before I can answer. She knows me. Usually I’ve got something to say.
“Well, it wasn’tgood. But it’s done,” I say, pushing myself up and heading for the kitchen.
“I could think of one or two things to tell that lady,” she mutters under her breath.
“Camila,” I say. “We all know your thoughts on my divorce.”
She points a finger at me. “I still want to give her a piece of my mind. Maybe a piece of my sandal too, right to her forehead.”
I laugh. “Let’s not get violent.”
“Who said anything about violence? Sandals can slap some sense into a personverygracefully.” Her eyes sparkle.
