I’m nervous to hear what Dona Selma will think of it. I swallow down the sorrow that Grandma will never try anything I baked myself.

Dona Selma tries a slice, and after just one bite, she starts passing plates around to the guests standing nearby, urging them to try it.

“This is amazing!” a woman says, and the other guests all respond the same way, looking like they’re about to melt along with the flavors in their mouths.

“Your club baked this?” another guest asks, impressed.

“Pedro and Lari came up with this recipe together,” Cintia explains.

“This is a Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it?” Dona Selma asks.

Pedro looks at me, suddenly shy. “It does fit the requirement. The layer of corn cake carries a lot of Parmesan cheese and with the sweetness of the guava, you do get a Romeo and Juliet recipe.”

It feels like a dream, seeing the way everyone smiles when they try our cake. The kids are bouncy, their mouths full. Some of the guests giggle, cake crumbs on their lips. Volunteers give each other side hugs, midchew.

Dona Selma stands in front of the kids’ choir to speak a few words. “I wanted to thank everyone for making this fundraiser a success,” she says, and the room cheers. “Thank you for dreaming this dream with me, every day. Because of you, we’ll be able to fix our kitchen so we can continue doing the work we do here.” More cheers and clapping. Dona Selma is starting to look tearful, her eyes bright. “This has been such a difficult time for our community. Such a difficult time, personally.” Her voice cracks a little, and the painful lump that forms in my throat tells me where she’s going. “I lost my best friend recently.” Her words feel like a punch in the gut. When Dona Selma locks eyes with me, I’m stuck to my spot, breathless, trying to hold back tears. “She was an incredible woman who believed in dreams, too. She believed in my dream. She was a fierce supporter of our Vozes, and wherever you are, Julieta, I thank you for never letting go of my hand. This song is for you.”

People all around raise their glasses to honor Grandma. Victor, who slides next to me, gives my shoulder a supportive squeeze. Amandinha appears and hands me a sunflower before running back to take her position in the choir. The kids sing “Oração” by A Banda Mais Bonita da Cidade, a song that’s like a prayer, just like its title, describing how hearts aren’t as simple as we think, how they’re big enough to store even what pantries can’t.

And I can’t take this.

I’m not ready for final prayers or goodbyes.