She nods proudly.
“I made it for you,” she says. “Because you are part of us now.”
You hang the drawing on the fridge next to the calendar, the one that still has notes in Mateo’s handwriting.
Dance recital. Dentist. Anniversary dinner.
Your life is written into those squares now, permanent and planned for.
One evening, Mateo asks if you are happy.
You are sitting on the porch watching the girls play in the yard. The sun is setting. The air smells like jasmine.
“Yes,” you say simply, because it is true.
He takes your hand.
“I never thought I would get this again,” he admits. “After Mariana left, I thought that was it. That I used up my chance.”
You squeeze his hand.
“You did not use it up,” you say. “You just had to wait for the right one.”
He looks at you with so much love it makes your chest ache.
“I would wait a hundred years if it meant finding you,” he says.
You kiss him then, soft and slow, and the girls make exaggerated gagging noises from the yard.
You laugh and pull away, flipping them off playfully when Mateo is not looking.
They giggle and run back to their game.
Life is not perfect.
There are still hard days. Arguments about bedtime. Fights over screen time. Moments when the girls test boundaries just to see if you will stay when things get difficult.
But you do.
You stay through the tantrums and the tears and the teenage years that loom on the horizon.
You stay because love is not just the easy moments.
It is showing up when it is hard. When it is boring. When it is thankless.
It is choosing every single day to be present.
And they choose you back.
Every drawing on the fridge. Every “goodnight, Mom” before bed. Every time they reach for your hand in a crowd.
They choose you.
Years later, when the girls are older and preparing for high school, Renata asks you a question that catches you off guard.
“Do you ever regret it?” she asks one afternoon while you are driving her to dance practice.
“Regret what?” you ask.
She hesitates, then says quietly, “Not having your own kids. Like, ones that came from you.”
You pull the car over because this conversation deserves your full attention.
You turn to face her.
“You are my own kids,” you say firmly. “Biology does not make you a mother. Love does. Showing up does.”
Her eyes fill with tears.
“But you could have had a different life,” she says. “One that was easier.”
You reach over and take her hand.
