PART2
Marcos Almeida didn’t remember the exact moment his world split in two. He remembered the rain pounding against the windows. He remembered the phone vibrating on the kitchen table. He remembered an unfamiliar voice saying “Rodovia dos Imigrantes.s”
Ana Clara, his wife, had gone out that afternoon to take care of some family matters and buy a few small things for Miguel. She was two months away from giving birth. At home, a crib still sat unassembled against the wall.
Miguel’s room smelled of new wood, baby soap, and dried paint. Ana Clara had folded the first set of linens with a patience that moved Marcos. Each sock seemed like a small, ridiculous promise.
When they told him the car had lost control on the wet track, Marcos felt the voice on the phone drift away. They spoke of impact, of a barrier, of immediate death. Technical terms. Clean words.
Nothing clean happens when someone tells you that your pregnant wife won’t be coming home.
Ana Clara and Marcos had met eight years earlier in a bank line in São Paulo. She laughed easily, but not with just anyone. He said he fell in love when he saw her defend an elderly woman who had lost her place sbl.
They married without a big party, with a simple meal and a table full of relatives who offered too many opinions. Ana Clara was the kind of woman who kept receipts, ultrasounds, medical notes, and greeting cards as if each piece of paper could save a memory from oblivion.
That’s why the blue folder existed. Inside were Miguel’s ultrasound scans, the results of his last obstetric appointment, the name of the Hospital das Clínicas written on a sheet of paper, and a list of things that still needed to be bought before the birth.
Gustavo, Ana Clara’s brother, had been a part of their lives for years. He ate at their house, took out small loans, and said that the family should help each other. Marcos never liked him very much, but Ana Clara trusted him.
That was the first mistake that would later hurt differently.
Trust isn’t always broken with a shout. Sometimes it’s broken with a borrowed key, a repeated private conversation, and a debt no one acknowledges until there’s blood on the asphalt.
On the night of the accident, Gustavo called Marcos twice before the police did. In the first call, he only asked if Ana Clara had arrived yet. In the second, he sounded agitated, but not surprised.
Marcos didn’t think about that then. Grief reduces the world to a single phrase: she’s gone. Everything else is left out, waiting its turn.
Ana Clara’s body was handled according to standard procedures. There were documents, signatures, a cremation authorization, and a scheduled time for the following day. Every step seemed designed to move forward even though her husband couldn’t breathe.
At the Vila Alpina Crematorium, in the eastern part of São Paulo, the air had an eerie weight. The flowers smelled overly sweet. The white lights made everything seem official, as if the tragedy required administrative illumination.
Marcos stood beside the coffin, his hands digging into the dark wood. Ana Clara lay inside, pale and motionless, prepared by hands that had never loved her. Her seven-month pregnant belly still rose beneath the cloth.
Ana Clara’s mother wept, clutching a rosary in her fingers. Gustavo stood against the wall, arms crossed, eyes red. He looked like a sad man, as long as no one stared at him for too long.
An employee approached with the authorization folder. The time was written in the upper corner. Marcos saw the pen, saw the line where they awaited his confirmation, and felt an animalistic resistance in his chest.
“I need to see her one more time,” he said.
The employee hesitated. He explained the procedure with a gentleness that was perhaps meant to be human. Marcos didn’t hear the end. He repeated the same phrase. One last time. Please.
