“Who said anything about love?” my mother said with a wave of her hand as I poured the mate. “A woman who marries for love is a fool.”

“Why did you marry Papai?” I asked, setting the mate in front of her.

“Because he was exciting. I was just a girl in São Paulo; I wanted adventure, a new life.” She sipped her drink. “Look at where it got me. If I had listened to my mother, my life wouldn’t have been so hard. Maybe my sons wouldn’t have died. A woman is nothing without her sons.” She stared into her tea, scrying for what I could only imagine were the ghosts of the brothers I had never met—the two boys born in between Maria and I, the one who came out with the umbilical cord wrapped firmly around his neck and the other, who gasped for air but was too weak to live through the night. “Listen to your mother. Be good to your husband. You don’t want to be a ruined woman.”

* * *

November 1838

It had been over a month filled with tense politeness since my mother came to visit. Heavy rains rhythmically pattered against the windows. Manoel slipped into the apartment after a long day in the shop. His clothes were soaked, and water slid from his hair onto our floor, creating little puddles around his feet. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of mildewed old sweat that followed him. Manoel kissed my cheek before quietly sitting at the table. “I received a large order today.”

“From who?”

“The Silvas.” He refused to meet my eyes.

“Aren’t they friends of yours?”

He shrugged. “What does it matter? An order is an order.”

“Are you giving them a lower price?”

“I can’t charge any less than I do already.” He pushed his food around his plate: stewed fish and rice again. “Do you think we could—”

“No.” I didn’t even let him finish the question.

“It’s been three months.” He looked up at me. His eyes searched my features for a hopeful sign.

“I have a headache.”

His grip tightened on his fork. “You’ve had a headache for three months.”

I shrugged. “It’s a constant ailment.”

He dropped his fork. “I’m going out.”

I watched as he stomped out of the room.

Two weeks later I was walking home from the market when I heard someone mention my husband. I paused, unseen by Senhor and Senhora Silva. “You can’t keep giving Manoel money.”

“I know.” Senhor Silva turned from his wife’s scorn.

“It is not your responsibility to take care of him.”

“I said I know.” Senhor Silva let out a loud puff of air. “We have been friends since we were children. I can’t stand by and watch him become destitute.”

“If he goes destitute it is his choice.”

“Manoel has a wife he needs to take care of. Wouldn’t you want someone to step in and help us if we were in that situation?”