While my husband was working on the oil rigs off the Algarve, I gave birth to a child and lied, claiming he was the father, never foreseeing the fallout.
A secret that lasted a lifetime.
Dona Ana, is it true you and João have no children? neighbor Graça asked, leaning over the fence.
Clutching the empty bucket, I lowered my eyes.
God didnt bless us, I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady.
I hated those conversations. Whenever someone in the village mentioned children, a knot tightened inside me, as if a wet cloth were being wrung. In our hamlet, talk always revolved around two thingsharvests and kids. The crops that year had been generous, but the children
Sometimes at night I would sit on the old houses doorstep, watching the sunset, thinking of my husband. João had been away in the Algarve for a year and a half, extracting oil so we could have more than just garden potatoes. When he left, I kissed his shaved cheeks and whispered,
Come back soon.
He would grin that crooked smile and reply,
Of course, Aninhas. Youll barely notice Im gone.
Yet time crawled at an excruciating pace. At thirty I felt as if I were carrying the worlds weight, especially when the neighbors kids ran and played around me. Maria on the right had just welcomed her third child, Teresa on the left was expecting twins. And I I tended only to my daisies, pretending they were enough.
João and I tried for years to have a baby, but fate had other plans.
That night a real storm broke. Rain hammered the roof so hard it seemed it might tear through. I woke to strange sounds. At first I thought it was our cat, but then a sharp infant cry cut through the night.
I opened the door and froze.
Right at the threshold, wrapped in a thin cloth, a tiny figure sobbed and writhed.
My God I breathed, scooping the baby into my arms.
It was a newborn boy, no more than three or four months old. His face was flushed from crying, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched. Beside him lay an old, rainsoaked teddy bear.
I pressed him to my chest, feeling my own heart race.
Calm down, little one, calm I murmured.
The next morning I rushed to Dr. Nicolau, our local physician, who already knew of our infertility struggles.
Ana, are you sure you want to do this? he asked, shaking his head not in judgment but with 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 give me peace unless theres a child, I answered bitterly.
Five months passed in a blur. The little boy I named Miguel grew fastcrawling, turning, smiling. When he laughed, a dimple appeared on his right cheek.
I awaited Joãos return as if it were the greatest event of my life. I deepcleaned the house, baked his favorite cabbage cakes, and hung new curtains. When I heard his voice in the courtyard, my legs nearly gave out.
Aninhas!
He enteredtanned, lean, the same as ever.
And who do we have here? he said, stopping by the crib and looking at Miguel.
The boy opened his eyes and flashed a radiant grin, dimple and all.
João this is our son, I said, fighting the tremor in my 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 while, then suddenly smiled.
Our son? Aninhas he scooped me up and spun me around the room.
Miguel burst into laughter, watching us, and tears streamed down my faceI couldnt tell if they were from joy or fear.
Years went 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 as Miguel grew, Joãos worried glances became more frequent.
It became especially clear when the boy turned twelve.
Aninhas, João said thoughtfully at dinner, staring at Miguel. Why is he so darkskinned? 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 agreed, but from then on he examined Miguel more closely.
Every year my hidden fear grew.
When Miguel turned fifteen he fell gravely ill, plagued by three days of high fever. João wanted to rush him to a Lisbon hospital, but the doctor warned that the journey could be dangerous. I never left his side for a moment.
A terrible thought loop ran through my mind: what if he needed a blood transfusion? What if the doctors asked about hereditary diseases?
Miraculously, on the fourth day Miguel opened his eyes and asked for water. Then I realized it didnt matter whose blood ran through his veins. I truly was his mother.
When Miguel reached twentyfive, I could no longer keep the secret. At a family dinner, my trembling hands finally spoke.
I have something to tell you all
Everyone fell silent.
Twentyfive years ago, on a stormy night each word felt heavy. I found a baby on my doorstep.
I recounted the whole tale.
João stood up so quickly his 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 into this house? You are my mother. You always have been.
I burst into tears.
João returned that night, sat beside me on the stairs, and stayed silent for a long while.
Do you remember when he almost drowned at twelve? How he always got good grades? How we sent him to the military?
I nodded.
Maybe it doesnt matter how he ended up here. 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.
