You watch Lívia pull Davi’s hand like she’s trying to drag him out of a burning room without letting him smell the smoke.
The crowd keeps laughing, but it’s the kind of laughter that’s sharp enough to draw blood.
Helena stands there smiling like a queen, already enjoying how powerless a mother looks when she’s being humiliated in public.
And then Davi turns his head.
That small movement, almost nothing, flashes the crescent-shaped birthmark on his neck under the party lights.
The world inside you drops, silent and heavy.
Because you’ve seen that mark before, on a skin you kissed, on a neck you held, on the woman you buried.
Your wife. Isabela.
Porto Dourado, twenty years ago, rain at the cemetery, your ring burning your finger like a promise turned into guilt.
Your lungs refuse to fill.
Your hand goes to your pocket by instinct, touching the old photo you carry like a wound you never let close.
And suddenly the pool isn’t a pool anymore. It’s a mirror, and the reflection is a lie you’ve been living inside.
Lívia tries to leave.
Helena steps forward and blocks her like a gate.
“Not so fast,” she says sweetly, loud enough for the cameras.
You can see Davi’s lip trembling.
He’s trying to be brave, but he’s a child surrounded by adults playing cruelty like a game.
Your fists tighten in your pockets.
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