There are moments in life when fate holds a mirror up to you and asks who you truly are. I was Sérgio, the ruthless businessman, the owner of the glass towers, the widower who wore three-thousand-dollar suits to hide a disintegrating soul. My bank account overflowed with zeros, but my house was a mausoleum of silence. The medical diagnosis was my living death sentence: sterile. I would never hear the word “dad” addressed to me. Or so I thought until that infernally hot Tuesday on the outskirts of the city.
The red dust from the road clung to my Mercedes like a crust of neglect. I got out to inspect a vacant lot, a future shopping center that would make me millions, but what I found was priceless. There, among rusted sheets of metal and the fetid smell of misery, were they. Luiz and Ravi. Two nine-year-old twins who looked like specters born from the parched earth. Their ribs showed beneath tattered T-shirts. But their eyes… those dark eyes pierced my chest like silver bullets.
“Where are your parents?” I asked, feeling my Italian suit burning my skin with pure shame at such a lack.
—Mom left. She said she was going for bread three moons ago. She hasn’t come back —replied Luiz, the smallest by centimeters but the greatest in courage, while protecting his brother Ravi behind his weak back.
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