While my husband was working on the offshore rigs in the Algarve, I gave birth to a child and lied, claiming he was the father, never foreseeing the fallout.
A secret that lasted an entire lifetime.
Dona Ana, is it true that you and João have no children? asked our neighbor Graça, leaning over the fence.
Clutching the empty bucket, I averted my eyes.
God didnt grant us that, I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady.
I dreaded such conversations. Whenever anyone in the village mentioned children, a knot tightened inside me, as if a wet cloth were being wrung. In our little hamlet, talks always swirled around two topicsthe harvest and the youngsters. That years crops had been abundant, but the babies
Sometimes, at night, I would sit on the old houses doorstep, watching the sunset and thinking of my husband. João had been in the Algarve for a year and a half, extracting oil so we could afford more than garden potatoes. When he left, I would kiss his shaved cheeks and whisper:
Come back soon.
Hed grin that lopsided smile and reply:
Of course, Aninhas. You wont even notice Im gone.
Yet the days dragged on unbearably slow. At thirty, I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders, especially as the neighbours children ran and played around me. Maria on the right had just delivered her third child; Teresa on the left was expecting twins. And I I tended only to my daisies, pretending it was enough.
João and I tried for years to have a kid, but fate had other plans.
That night a real storm broke. The rain hammered the roof so hard it seemed it would tear through. I woke to strange sounds. At first I thought it was our cat, but then a sharp infant cry pierced the darkness.
I opened the door and froze.
Right at the entrance, wrapped in a thin rag, a tiny figure sobbed and twisted.
My God I breathed, scooping the baby into my arms.
It was a newborn boy, no older than three or four months. His face was flushed from crying, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched. Beside him lay an old, rainsoaked stuffed bear.
I pressed him to my chest, my heart pounding wildly.
Shh, little one, shh I murmured.
The next morning I rushed to Dr. Nicolau, our physician, who already knew of our infertility.
Ana, are you sure you want to go through with this? he asked, shaking his head without judgment, his gaze full of understanding.
Nicolau, help me with the paperwork Let everyone think hes ours. João will never find out; hes so far away
And your conscience?
My conscience wont rest until I have a child, I replied bitterly.
Five months vanished in an instant.
The little boy I named Miguel grew fastcrawling, rolling, smiling. When he laughed, a dimple appeared on his right cheek.
I counted the days until Joãos return, preparing his arrival as if it were the greatest event of my life. I scrubbed the house, baked his favorite cabbage cakes, and hung fresh curtains.
When his voice echoed from the yard, my legs nearly gave out.
Aninhas!
He stepped insidetanned, lean, the same as always.
And who do we have here? he stopped by the cradle, looking at Miguel.
The child opened his eyes and beamed, the dimple on full display.
João This is our son, I said, trying to steady my trembling voice. I learned about the pregnancy after you left. He was born early Im sorry I didnt tell you right away. I was scared.
João stayed silent for a long moment, then suddenly smiled.
Our son? Aninhas he scooped me up and spun me around the room.
Miguel burst into laughter, watching us, and tears spilled from my eyesI couldnt tell if they were of joy or fear.
Years slipped by.
João found work at the local sawmill so he wouldnt have to leave again. He adored the boy. Together they built birdhouses, fixed the old motorbike, and went fishing.
But the older Miguel got, the more Joãos worried glances grew.
The tension peaked when the boy turned twelve.
Aninhas, João said thoughtfully at dinner, eyes on Miguel. Why is his skin so dark? Our family has always been fair
My cup trembled in my hands.
He must have taken after Uncle Pedro. Remember my cousin?
Ah maybe, João nodded, but I saw him start watching Miguel more closely.
Each year, the fear inside me deepened.
When Miguel reached fifteen, he fell gravely illthree days of high fever. João wanted to take him to a Lisbon hospital, but the doctor warned it could be risky.
I never left his side for a single minute.
A horrible thought kept looping in my mind: what if he needed a blood transfusion? What if the doctors asked about hereditary diseases?
Miraculously, he recovered. On the fourth day Miguel opened his eyes and asked for water.
Thats when I realized it doesnt matter whose blood runs through his veins. I am truly his mother.
When my son turned twentyfive, I could no longer keep the secret.
At a family dinner, my trembling hands finally gave me the courage to speak.
I have something to tell you all
Everyone fell silent.
On a stormy night twentyfive years ago each word came out laboriously I found a baby on our doorstep.
I recounted the whole story.
João stood up so fast the chair toppled.
Twentyfive years he muttered. Twentyfive years of lies!
He stormed out.
And Miguel
Mother, he said suddenly. Does it matter how I came to this house? You are my mother. You always have been.
I broke down in tears.
João returned that night.
He sat beside me on the stairs, silent for a long while.
Remember when he almost drowned at twelve? How he always got good grades? How we sent him to the army?
I nodded.
Maybe it doesnt matter how he ended up with us. What matters is that he is our son.
I wept again.
The next morning life went onthis time without secrets. Because blood does not make a family; love does.
