I traveled with my younger siblings, Mel and Gui. The three of us left the airport, suitcases in hand and smiles on our faces. We were convinced that Mom would be surprised, stronger, calmer, maybe even happier. We laughed, without the slightest doubt.
I will never forget the heat of that day. It was as if the sky wanted to remind me how long I had been away. Three years, five years, thousands of video calls and thousands of dollars sent, and yet I thought it was enough to say that I had been a good son.
My name is Rafael. I am thirty-five years old and I am an engineer in Dubai. I'm used to the desert, steel, precise schedules and cold numbers. But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared me for that day.
For five years, we sent money to each other almost every month. I sent about eight thousand reals. Mel sent between five and ten thousand. Gui too, always on time. Bonuses, extras, everything we could. In my mind, Mom lived comfortably, in a decent house, with food and no worries. That's what I thought.
We took a taxi to the eastern area of São Paulo. We talked about projects and parties. We talked about the latest deposits, birthdays, Christmas. We have calculated that in five years we have sent more than six hundred thousand reals. Mom deserved every penny for all she sacrificed for us.
But I started to have a bad feeling. The streets were narrowing. The houses were made of wood and sheet metal. Children were playing in the mud. It was not the neighborhood we had imagined. The taxi stopped and on the way down we smelled the heat, dust and the strong smell of sewage. A feeling of anxiety came over me.
I asked an elderly lady if Dona Florência Silva lived there. When we told her that we were her children, she started crying and asked us why we had taken so long. She told us to prepare. We ran without thinking.
