SIX MONTHS LATER
It had been six months since the night my mother died.
I could count it in days if I wanted — a hundred and eighty-something — but I avoided doing that math in my head because it always dragged me back to the same place: the three of us in the car, me in the back seat laughing at some nonsense my dad had said, my mom humming softly along to the radio, everyone excited on our way to the pizza place to celebrate my eighteenth birthday. And then the headlights of the truck coming too fast in the wrong lane, the noise I still can't describe to this day without feeling my entire body lock up, and the rest of the night that I only remember in loose fragments — hospital lights, someone's voice saying my name, my dad crying in a way I'd never seen before.
Counting that time in numbers of days was easier than admitting the truly hard part: that life, stubbornly, had kept going.
My dad went back to work after two months. I went back to college after three. And almost two months ago, he started dating a woman named Helena.
I honestly had no problem with that. My mom had always been straightforward about this kind of thing — once, jokingly, when she was still alive and healthy, she had said that if anything ever happened to her, she didn't want my dad to spend the rest of his life alone and suffering. I remembered that and used it as a kind of silent permission, both for him and for myself, every time I saw my dad smiling at his phone at ten at night or heading out smelling too good on a Saturday.
The problem wasn't my dad dating again. The problem was Helena.
We had only met as a family once, a dinner at home that my dad organized with every possible care in the world, almost begging me to "give her a chance." Isabela, her daughter, hadn't come — she was on a work trip with college, some study-exchange thing I didn't pay much attention to at the time.
It was just me, my dad, and Helena, and that single night was enough for me to form an opinion that hadn't changed since.
She was polite, in the shallowest sense of the word — smiled at the right moments, complimented the living-room décor, asked about my course — but there was a distance there that I felt more than I could explain. When I mentioned that I had dropped a class that semester because of everything that was happening, she only answered "hm, I understand," and changed the subject too quickly for it to be a coincidence. When my dad proudly told her that I had started playing soccer with my friends again after months of not leaving the house, she commented that "it would be good for me to recover other routines as well, like studying," in a tone that didn't sound like encouragement — it sounded like a disguised demand.
It wasn't open hostility. It was subtler than that — a kind of calculated coldness, the kind of person who measured every word so as not to seem rude in front of my dad, but who made it clear, between the lines, that I wasn't exactly welcome in that future project she was building with him.
After she left that night, I asked my dad, half joking, half serious: "Does she like me?" He laughed, embarrassed, and said I was exaggerating, that Helena was just "a little reserved at first." I let it go. It wasn't worth insisting right then, with him so happy.
The news about the trip came on a Tuesday, two weeks ago.
"I have to go to Manaus for about fifteen days, new project," my dad said, sitting at the kitchen table, stirring his coffee before continuing. "And I don't want to leave you alone in the house that whole time, Lucas. Not after everything we've been through."
"Dad, I'm eighteen. I can stay alone."
"I know you can." He paused the way he did when he had already decided something and was just choosing the right words. "But I wanted you to stay at Helena's house while I'm gone. She agreed right away, and Isabela got super excited about the idea — apparently she's always wanted a little brother. I think it would be good, you know, for you to get to know this new side of our life better."
I stayed quiet for a moment, thinking about how to say no without seeming like I was sabotaging his happiness.
"I thought Helena didn't like me much."
"She doesn't know you properly yet, son. It was just one dinner." He smiled in that hopeful way I didn't have the heart to contradict. "Give it a chance. For me."
And that was how, without much room to refuse, I packed my bag again, two weeks after that strange dinner, to spend fifteen days in the house of a woman who barely hid the fact that she didn't want me around.
Helena's house was big — ground floor and second floor, electronic gate, pool in the backyard, the kind of house that makes you walk more carefully inside just out of fear of breaking something by pure accident. I found out later, from Isabela, that she had kept the property in the divorce and made a point of mentioning it every now and then, like someone carrying a medal.
Isabela opened the gate before I even rang the doorbell, and the hug she gave me was so unexpected that it took me a second to react. Her body pressed against mine — I felt her soft breasts, her slim waist, the sweet smell of shampoo and warm skin. Her short shorts rode up a little with the movement, and I felt the curve of her ass for an instant before she pulled away.
"Finally!" she said, stepping back just enough to look me up and down, smiling wide. "I was about to go to Manaus after your dad if he didn't let you come. I swear I've always wanted a little brother, and look, I got one almost ready-made."
That brought an instant heat to me. She was a damn bombshell — the photos on Instagram pulled likes from so many people it was no surprise. Fair skin, dark hair loose over her shoulders, long legs, and the loose T-shirt that still didn't hide the volume of her breasts.
"Thanks, I guess." I laughed, still a little awkward with so much enthusiasm coming from someone I barely knew and from the unexpected hug. "Nice to meet you again, officially this time."
"Come in, come in. I already set aside a room for you. My mom wanted to put you in the one at the back near the laundry, but I fought a little for a better one. I didn't win everything, but at least it's not next to the washing machine." She rolled her eyes, lowering her voice. "Fair warning: she left a list of rules in the kitchen. Welcome."
Isabela was twenty, two years older than me, and in that first minute you could already feel that her excitement was genuine — the kind of warmth I hadn't expected to find there, considering her mother.
It was almost as if the house had two different climates sharing the same roof.
The list was right there, in Helena's tight, pointed handwriting, stuck by a magnet on the door of the huge stainless-steel fridge.
Bed made every day before nine.
Dishes washed right away, never piled in the sink.
Help wash the car on Saturday mornings.
Take care of the pool maintenance with me on Wednesdays.
Wi-Fi available until eleven at night, not one minute more.
Lights and air conditioning off when leaving the room.
And underneath, like last time, a separate addendum, almost a ready-made speech:
"This house is not a hotel or a boarding house. You have a bed, food, water, electricity and internet for free. The least I can ask in return is collaboration and respect for everyone's space."
I read it twice, feeling my stomach tighten. It wasn't exactly anger at the content — part of it even made sense, I recognized that — it was the way each line came wrapped in a reminder that I was a guest, a burden, a favor she was doing for my dad.
Helena walked into the kitchen at that moment, already changed into casual clothes. The tight blouse clearly marked the volume of her breasts and her still-slim waist. The black pants hugged her thighs and ass in a way that made my gaze drop on its own for a second before I forced myself to look at her face. She was a damn bombshell. My dad was doing just fine. Young, she must have been a hit with men, and she had aged like wine — good skin, a well-cared-for body, that air of a woman who knows the effect she causes and uses it with coldness.
"Oh, you're here." She didn't even really smile, just gave a quick look at my suitcase, like someone calculating a logistical problem. "Did you see the list?"
"I did."
"Great. That way no one pretends they didn't know later." She grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, took a sip, and continued as if remembering some random detail. "Your dad told me you've been a bit lost at college this semester. So no staying up all night gaming or on those social networks. Wi-Fi cuts off at eleven, no exceptions."
"It was just one class I dropped, because of everything that was happening at home, the first months…"
"I understand it was hard, Lucas." She said my name in an almost impatient way, as if pronouncing it was already extra effort in her day. "But it's hard for everyone at some point. Here, while you're staying, I need things to work the way they work for the two of us." She made a vague gesture between herself and Isabela. "It doesn't cost anything to give back a little organization for everything this house offers."
I swallowed the answer I wanted to give. It wasn't shouted hostility — it was worse. It was that calm, reasonable tone that made any complaint of mine sound like ingratitude. While she spoke, my eyes slipped once more to the cleavage of her blouse and the way the fabric tightened over her chest when she breathed. Irritation and lust mixed in a dirty way.
The room Isabela had managed to get for me was on the second floor, small, but at least far from the laundry. I dropped the suitcase on the single bed and stood there for a moment, looking out the window at the huge backyard, the pool shining down below, thinking about how that entire luxury house managed to feel so small and suffocating at the same time.
I knocked on Isabela's door later that night, just to thank her again for the better room.
"Don't mention it, it's the least I could do." She was sitting on the bed, scrolling on her phone, wearing only a loose T-shirt that slipped off one shoulder and left her collarbone and the beginning of her breast exposed. The sleep shorts were so short they barely covered anything when she adjusted herself. She looked at me with a smile that lasted a little longer than I expected before continuing. "She's like that, you know. It's not personal malice against you specifically. She's like that with everyone who isn't her."
"Comforting."
"Trust me, with time you'll learn to play her game." Isabela shrugged, and the movement made the T-shirt slip a little more. "And if you need anything, you know where to find me. Seriously."
The way Isabela looked at me… I don't know, maybe it was just my impression, but she looked at me with enthusiasm, and at the same time there seemed to be something else in her eyes. I think I was just being arrogant assuming she had a thing for me, but at least she was a sweet person. Still, when I said goodbye and closed the door, the image of her breasts marking the T-shirt and her bare thighs kept pounding in my head.
I went back to my room, lay down staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of the house settling for the night, the distant hum of the pool filter outside.
Fourteen days left. Fourteen damn days…
And for the first time since I arrived, I didn't know if the biggest problem would be Helena's coldness… or the fact that both of them, each in their own way, were already occupying a space that was far too dangerous in my SIX MONTHS
