I felt uneasy, but José had a point. As long as we were together, we were safe.

* * *

August 1846

Frigid rain pelted the ship, forcing me to stay below in the stuffy cabin with the children, fighting with the cushions I was perched on. At thirty-seven weeks I felt like an overripe fruit ready to burst. All I wanted was to be on solid ground.

Even though I was relieved to make it to Montevideo, I was apprehensive over what we might find. The city hadn’t recovered from the siege and it was crawling with French and British soldiers.

As we rolled through the empty streets, I could see the ghosts of what the city had once been. Gone were the peddlers selling their goods from little carts, the women who’d bustled from shop to shop in their brightly colored dresses, their laughter tinkling like clinking china over the sound of the buggies driving down the streets. Montevideo was no longer home. Rows of houses sat abandoned, the boarded-up windows a testament to the devastation we had endured. I looked down and rubbed my stomach. We could not afford to stay here for very long.

It was then, while in the carriage on our way home, that the pains came. I doubled over as they made me crumple in on myself. José whipped the horses, rushing them faster as I prayed that the midwife was still here.

We were able to get her to our home just in time for the birth. The piercing cries of my other babies when they had left me had been welcome relief. This time, though, my son was quiet. Panic washed over me. Children, when they enter this world, are supposed to cry out with victory, but my son did not. I sat up on my elbows. “Why isn’t he crying?” Panic seized my throat. “He’s not crying. Why isn’t he crying?”

The midwife turned her back to me, ignoring my questions as she went to work. I could see her move her arms but still couldn’t hear anything. This isn’t happening. Oh God, don’t let this be happening. I can’t lose another child. One of the midwife’s assistants tried to tend to me, but I swatted her away as I struggled to get up from the bed.

Finally, I heard the high-pitched wail of my son. Relief washed over me as the midwife turned back around, delivering him to my expectant arms. “Congratulations, Mamãe, your son is quite the fighter.”

I rocked him ever so slightly. He had already settled, his wide eyes searching the new world he now lived in. “He’s a fighter, just like his father,” I finally responded.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if some of that came from his mother.” The midwife shot me a knowing smile as she washed her hands in the basin.

José burst into the room a short while later. Pure joy spread over his features as he took his son into his arms.