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.”
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.
