This time, he would need courage.
The courage of a father.
He stepped closer, his hands trembling, until he could see the painful details that made him stop breathing for a moment. Cristiane had dark bruises along her left arm. A cut near her eyebrow that had healed badly. Her breathing was shallow, as if even the smallest movement caused pain deep in her ribs.
The gentle warmth he remembered in her eyes had been replaced by the hard, distant look of someone who had survived too many battles and endured too much suffering simply to keep her children alive.
The younger boy, wearing a blue shirt stained with dirt, hid behind his mother’s legs. He cried quietly while gripping the fabric of her trousers so tightly that his tiny knuckles turned white.
The older boy wore a faded yellow shirt, torn and worn thin. His fists were clenched, and his gaze remained fixed on the ground.
That posture shattered Alberto’s heart.
It was the posture of a child who had learned far too early that the world was dangerous, that adults could not be trusted, and that hope often led to pain.
“Cristiane… what happened to you? Who did this?” Alberto asked, his voice barely more than a desperate whisper.
She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she squeezed her older son’s hand and turned her face away, as if looking at him would reopen wounds that had barely healed.
Alberto inhaled slowly, trying not to scare her.
“Please,” he said softly. “Tell me. Where have you been? Do you need medical help?”
Finally, she raised her head. The pain in her eyes was so deep that Alberto felt an overwhelming urge to hold her, to undo the past and become the man she once believed he could be.
But when she spoke, her voice sounded rough and distant.
