—Antônio, you're still strong and healthy. A man shouldn't live alone forever.
He simply smiled calmly and replied:
—When my daughters are settled, then I'll think about myself.
And I meant it.
When my sister got married and I got a stable job in São Paulo, she finally had time to take care of her own life. Then, one night in November, she called us with a tone I hadn't heard from her in years—warm, full of hope, almost shy:
"I've met someone," he said. "Her name is Larissa."
My sister and I were in shock. Larissa was thirty years old, half my father's age.
She worked as an accountant at a local insurance company, was divorced, and had no children. They had met in a yoga class for seniors at the community center.
At first we thought she might be trying to take advantage of him. But when we got to know her—kind, polite, sweet—we noticed the way she looked at my father. And the way he looked at her. It wasn't pity. It was peace.
The ceremony took place in the garden of our family home, under a large mango tree decorated with small strings of lights. Nothing extravagant, just a simple gathering with friends and family, roast chicken, refreshments, laughter, and a few tears.
