Simone's POV
We touched down in São Paulo just after sunrise. The plane sank slowly through thick winter clouds, and suddenly there it was — the city stretching forever, gray rooftops shining faintly where the morning light found them.
After that long flight, I cannot wait to smell the air outside. The fresh wind, the smell of fresh coffee, that faint sweetness that only belongs to home.
Ricardo sat by the window, chin on his hand, watching the ground draw closer.
Beside him, poor Digão was half-asleep, hair sticking out like a rooster.
Bosco smiled from the aisle seat, one hand on the armrest, the other resting over mine. I hadn't even noticed I was holding my breath until the wheels touched down and I finally let it go.
France has been magical, unforgettable, but São Paulo was where we belonged. The familiar, the ordinary, the things I understood without translation.
The trip had been a dream, something Bosco and I would never even dare to imagine until Ricardo first showed us the tickets. To think that our sixteen-year-old had planned it all, tickets, itinerary, even those tiny hotel rooms with the view of Paris rooftops, still made me smile every time I replayed it in my mind.
My sixteen-year-old son had done that. My baby boy. Using the money he'd earned. Not just the spending of it — the thought, the effort behind it.
It still fills me with pride every time I think about it.
The trip had been perfect in all the ways, even the little imperfections. The wrong trains, the rainy mornings, the detours that turned into discoveries. The food, the laughter, the endless walking. The kind of days that make you feel young again just remembering them.
As we stepped out of the airport, the chill of July air wrapped around us. The taxi queue moved slowly, and I held my coat tighter.
Bosco, of course, turned even the luggage into a small engineering project. He stood there planning how to fit the suitcases just right, testing combinations like he was designing a bridge.
"Hey Davinci! Enough with the engineering and planning, it's luggage, not Mona Lisa, just stuff it in"
I teased him.
He was flushed, but still continued to arrange them like pieces in a puzzle.
As we drove through the waking city, bakeries were just opening. The smell of bread drifted in through the window. Headlights mingled with the first light of morning, a mix of gold and blue that made everything look gentler.
Ricardo leaned his forehead against the window. "It feels strange," he said softly.
"What does?" I asked.
"Being home. It's quiet here."
I smiled. "It's peace, not quiet."
He turned toward me and smiled, that gentle, lopsided smile that had belonged to him since he was a child.
By the time we reached Morumbi, the sun had climbed higher. The gate creaked like always, and the garden smelled of wet earth and the guava tree out front. A football hit a wall somewhere down the street — that sound I'd heard a thousand times.
Home.
Bosco and Ricardo carried the bags in while I opened the windows and started boiling water for coffee. The smell filled the house in seconds — real Brazilian coffee, strong and dark, the kind that somehow makes a house feel alive again.
When Bosco joined me at the table, he looked tired but content.
"I can still hear the vendors shouting, 'Pão fresco! Morango!'" he said, chuckling. "But the sound inside that stadium — the Stade Vélodrome — I don't think I'll ever forget it."
"Neither will anyone who was there," I said quietly, remembering the roar when the ball hit the net, the flags, the tears, the way strangers hugged each other like family.
The semifinal. I still can't believe we lived that.
We drank in silence for a while, listening to the white noise.
Less than twelve hours after we'd returned, Ricardo would leave again — this time alone, to represent Brazil at the youth camp in Rio.
A week, they said. Only a week. But to a mother's heart, distance never measures itself in days.
"He'll be fine," Bosco said gently, reading my silence.
I nodded, but my throat felt tight. "I know. It's just — he's never gone alone for so long before."
He reached across the table and touched my wrist. "He's ready."
Maybe he was. Maybe I wasn't.
The rest of the morning blurred into small comforts. Laundry, unpacking, phone calls to friends who wanted to hear about France. Ricardo helped me carry things from the hallway, still wearing his travel jacket, his hair slightly messy.
At one point, I caught him standing by the bookshelf, touching the tiny Eiffel Tower keychain we'd bought near the Seine. His face softened with memory.
"It feels like a dream," he said.
"It was one," I replied. "You made it possible. Remember that!"
He smiled. I could tell that this is just the beginning. This boy is going to plan bigger and better next time.
After lunch, he went out. Bosco offered to drive him, but he shook his head. "I need to stretch my legs."
I watched him from the window again, jogging up the street. His stride was longer now, stronger. He looked older.
Afternoon settled softly over the house. The golden light filtered through the curtains, touching everything in warmth. Ricardo had packed most of his bag already, his boots, the youth national training shirt, his Bible folded neatly on top.
I ironed one last shirt while he and Bosco checked his list again.
"Documents?"
"Got them"
"Training gear?"
"Got it."
"Shin guards?"
"Yes."
"Your head?"
He laughed. "Still attached."
I smiled but felt the ache tighten in my chest again.
There is no manual for this, for the moment you help your child pack for his first journey alone, knowing he's walking toward his dreams and away from your reach.
In the living room, Digão played with the small football he'd bought in Marseille, kicking it lightly against the couch.
"Are you nervous?" he asked his brother.
"A little."
"Why? You know you're good, and you will do your best. What's there to be nervous about?" he asked with genuine confusion and confidence.
Ricardo chuckled and shook his head.
"You'll understand soon"
Bosco looked at his watch. "We should leave in an hour."
I felt time contract, like the air in the room was pressing closer. I busied myself with little things , folding a jacket, checking if we had enough food for the week, tidying the kitchen. Anything to keep my hands moving so my heart wouldn't break.
The sun dipped early that evening. Ricardo showered, dressed in his São Paulo jacket, and came to the table for a quick meal before leaving.
I cooked stroganoff, one of his favorites.
"It's perfect," he said.
We ate together quietly. The TV murmured faintly in the background, a news report about the world cup final tomorrow. Bosco mentioned some engineering project, Digão made jokes about how he'd "rule the house" for a week, and Ricardo smiled at us all, like he wanted to memorize our faces.
When he finished, he pushed back his chair and looked at me. "Can we pray before we go?"
"Of course," I said, my throat tightening.
We joined hands around the table. Bosco led the prayer, short, simple, full of calm faith.
"Thank you, Lord, for this family, for the journey that brought us home safely, and for the one that begins tonight. Protect our son as he walks the path you've made for him. Keep him strong, keep him kind."
"Amen"
When he finished, I squeezed Ricardo's hand.
My eyes stayed closed longer than the others.
The drive to the bus terminal was quiet. The city lights stretched like strings of stars, and the hum of the car filled the spaces between our breaths.
Ricardo sat in the backseat, his duffel bag by his side. I kept turning around to look at him, trying not to make him self-conscious. He was humming softly to himself, one of those old hymns he liked to listen to after matches.
At a stoplight, Bosco reached over and took my hand. His eyes met mine for a moment, steady, reassuring. "He'll be all right," he said again.
"I know," I whispered. But knowing and feeling are two different things.
When we reached the station, the platform was already busy with other people.
Ricardo got out, straightened his jacket, and slung the bag over his shoulder. The cold air hit us immediately.
Bosco handled the formalities, the check-in, and the documents. I stood beside Ricardo, trying to commit every detail to memory, the faint curls of his hair at the back of his neck, the way his fingers tapped lightly against the strap of his bag.
"You'll call when you get there?" I asked.
"Of course."
"Eat well. Sleep early."
"I will."
"And listen to your coach."
He smiled. "Always."
And then he hugged me. When he wrapped his arms around me, I didn't want to let go. His shoulder was solid against my cheek, and I could feel his heartbeat, quick but sure.
"I am going to a football camp, not war. Relax, will you? I'm going to be back in a week"
Bosco clapped his shoulder. "Remember Kaká! You're going to be representing the country. So, be disciplined. Do not cause any issues. Listen to the coaches and joy, my boy. Never forget joy. Enjoy football."
The whistle blew for boarding. I felt the world tilt.
"Vai com Deus, meu amor," I whispered. ("Go with God, my love.")
He nodded against my hair. "I will, Mamãe."
When he pulled away, I saw something in his eyes, a flicker of hesitation, as if he felt the same tug I did. But then he smiled again, waved, and walked toward the bus.
The engine rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the evening mist. I stood there beside Bosco, watching until the red taillights disappeared into the dark.
Only when they were gone did I realize my hands were trembling.
Bosco put an arm around me. "Come on," he said softly. "Let's go home."
I nodded, but for a long time I didn't move.
It wasn't grief, it was something quieter, deeper. A mix of pride and ache that only mothers seem to understand.
On the drive back, the city looked different, the same streets, the same lights, but emptier somehow.
After he went to bed, I lingered in Ricardo's room, the bed still unmade from the morning, the faint smell of his cologne, a folded training shirt left behind on the chair. I sat for a while, tracing the stitching on the sleeve.
For sixteen years, I'd known where he was every night. Tonight was the first exception.
I whispered another prayer, softer this time. "Keep him safe"
Then I turned off the light, leaving the room bathed in the glow of the streetlamp outside, empty, but waiting.
The house always felt different on Sunday mornings, but that first Sunday without Ricardo was something else entirely.
Even the air seemed hesitant, as if it hadn't yet learned how to move without the sound of a football bouncing against the wall or the smell of his shampoo drifting from the bathroom.
I woke before dawn, as I usually did, but there was no rustle of sheets from the next room, no faint hum of music from his room. Just stillness.
I stood in the hallway for a moment, unsure what to do with it.
Bosco was still asleep. Digão had cocooned himself in blankets, one arm hanging off the side of the bed. I smiled softly, he could sleep through an earthquake.
I made coffee, the sound of the pot filling the silence. The smell spread through the kitchen, comforting but also bittersweet. When I set out four cups instead of three, I paused. Old habits don't adjust as quickly as hearts do.
After breakfast, Bosco left for a quick errand, promising to pick up bread and groceries on the way back. I stood by the sink, hands resting on the counter, watching the neighborhood outside our window.
When he left, the house quieted again. Usually, I'd tidy up the kitchen, water the plants near the veranda, and sit by the window to read lesson plans or old notebooks from my students. I missed their noise, the clatter of pencils, the giggles, the chaos that filled the school hallways.
Teaching had always been more than a job; it was a rhythm that gave structure to my days, a kind of calling.
During holidays, that routine vanished, leaving behind both peace and a strange emptiness.
Still, I made the most of it. I'd plan lessons in my head, imagining the faces of my students when they discovered something new, the "ah!" moments that made the long days worth it.
Sometimes I'd write small prayers in the margins of my notebooks: "Let me have patience again when classes begin."
It wasn't the first time Ricardo had gone somewhere without us. But never this long.
Also, it was the first time he'd gone to a place where his success or failure would depend on him alone. No family nearby, no familiar coach, no friendly face to translate nerves into laughter.
A whole week. Seven days of someone else telling him when to wake, when to run, when to eat.
It was necessary, I knew that. But knowing didn't make it easier.
I prayed softly, there by the sink. Not for his success, though of course I wanted that too, but for calm. For peace. For him to carry a piece of home with him.
That afternoon, the phone rang.
"Oi, Mamãe!"
The relief in my chest was immediate.
"My baby! How was the journey? Everything allright? Did you settle in?" I asked so many questions at once.
"Yes," Ricardo said, his voice bright and clear through the line.
"We just finished the first meeting.They gave us our rooms and everything."
"Good," I said, smiling though he couldn't see it. "You sound happy."
"I am. The players are older, but they're nice. And the coach said I'll train with the midfield group."
I laughed softly. "Of course. Where else will you be? A right back?"
He was horrified by that thought. I could tell.
He went on to tell me about the dorms, the cafeteria, the first impression of the field,
"Mamãe, the grass here looks different. There's something in the air mamãe" there was wonder in his voice.
For a moment, I forgot the distance.
"Don't forget to eat well," I reminded him.
"I will. The food's different, but good. They even had feijoada today."
I grinned. "Then they know how to keep you happy."
Bosco joined the call midway, asking about the the facilities. Ricardo answered everything with his usual excitement, his words tumbling over each other.
When we hung up, the silence returned.
Over the next few days, life found a new rhythm.
I filled my mornings with small things, cleaning the cabinets, organizing lesson notes for the next term, and writing a list of supplies I'd need for my students. It felt good to think about the classroom again, even if only in preparation.
Sometimes I'd visit the neighborhood market with Digão. He liked to help carry bags, though he always ended up with the lightest ones, "strategic delegation," he called it, mimicking Bosco's voice.
That boy had energy that belonged in a power plant. He adored his brother, but he didn't like being compared to him. Whenever someone said, "Ah, you're Ricardo's brother!" he'd roll his eyes and mutter, "I'm just Digão."
At the market, familiar faces greeted us.
"Your eldest on that football trip, dona Simone?" one vendor asked, weighing oranges.
"Yes," I said, smiling proudly. "He's training with the national youth team this week."
"Ah, the one with the golden feet! May God bless his game, hopefully he can win the world cup next time" he said, handing me an extra orange.
"No pressure, eh!?" I smiled awkwardly. I do want him to win the world cup for us. But, why put the pressure on a 16 year old boy. Let him find joy first. Then he can worry about expectations.
In the afternoons, I spent more time with Digão.He had a different energy from his brother, louder, more unpredictable, but full of charm. Where Ricardo moved with calm focus, Digão was like chaos taken form, always talking, always laughing, always upto mischief.
We played board games, watched TV, and once even baked a cake, an adventure that left flour on every possible surface.
"Ricardo would've made it robotic," he said, licking chocolate from his finger.
"And you made it fun," I replied, flicking a bit of flour at him.
He grinned. "Do you miss him too, Mamãe?"
The question came so simply and so out of the blue, like he was asking about the weather.
"Yes," I said. "I do."
"Me too. But maybe he's missing us even more."
"Why do you think that?"
"Because he doesn't have brigadeiro or your hugs there."
I laughed, but his words touched me. Children always manage to find truth in the simplest things.
At night, after Digão went to bed, Bosco and I would sit together in the living room. The TV flickered softly, playing reruns of the World Cup matches. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn't.
He could always sense when my thoughts drifted toward Ricardo.
"He's fine," Bosco would say, eyes still on the screen. "Probably too busy training to even remember what day it is."
I smiled faintly. "You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."
He chuckled. "Maybe a little."
We shared quiet laughter, the kind that fills the spaces between words. After so many years together, we didn't need to explain our feelings.
When I went to bed, I often found myself listening to the faint hum of the street outside, cars passing, a dog barking somewhere in the distance. It was oddly comforting, that sense of life continuing.
Before turning off the lamp, I'd whisper a prayer, not long, just enough to send love across the miles.
Midweek, another call came.
"Mamãe! We had a practice match today!" Ricardo's voice carried a mix of pride and surprise. "I scored one goal."
"One?" I teased. "Only one?"
He laughed. "Only one. But the coach said I read the game well. That's good enough for me."
"It's wonderful," I said. "I'm proud of you, meu amor."
He told me about his roommate, a boy from Belo Horizonte, and about how Ronaldinho, the rising star of their age group, had shown him a trick during practice.
"He moves like he's dancing," Ricardo said, awe in his voice. "I want to learn that."
"Then you will," I said softly.
We spoke for nearly ten minutes before the coach reminded them to turn off the phones. When the line went dead, I sat holding the receiver for a while, smiling at nothing.
Bosco came into the kitchen then, his hands still dusty from fixing a loose hinge. "News from our prodigy?"
"He's fine," I said. "Happy."
"Then we can rest easy tonight."
And for once, I truly did.
The days blurred softly together after that small moments stitched with faith.
On Thursday, I met Helena again at church.
"How's your heart?" she asked.
"Quieter," I said. "It's strange, I think I'm learning to miss him without sadness."
She smiled. "That's growth, Simone."
We prayed together afterward, lighting candles for our families.
Later, at the market, I saw a boy juggling a football barefoot near the bakery. For a second, my breath caught, the stance, the swing of his leg, it looked just like Ricardo.
I had to smile at myself.
Motherhood, I realized, was seeing your children everywhere once they're gone.
On Saturday evening, the house felt unusually alive. Bosco had brought home corn from a street stall, and Digão insisted on making popcorn "for post-dinner dessert."
We sat together watching a movie, Digão narrating every scene as if we couldn't see it ourselves.
When the credits rolled, I looked at him. "You know, you've been very good this week."
He puffed his chest. "Of course. I'm the man of the house now."
"Oh, is that so?" I teased. "Then tomorrow, the man of the house can help clean the garage."
His eyes widened. "Wait, I meant…"
Bosco laughed so hard he almost dropped his drink.
Moments like that carried me through the week, laughter, small mischief, simple love.
The kind of love that fills a home even when one heart is far away.
Monday morning came again, and with it, the anticipation.
Ricardo was due back that evening. I woke before dawn, unable to sleep, and went to the window. The city still slept under a thin veil of fog. I could almost imagine the bus already on the road, carrying him closer.
Bosco stirred awake around seven. "You're up early."
"I couldn't help it," I said. "He's coming home today."
He smiled, rubbing his eyes. "Feels like longer than a week, doesn't it?"
"It always does."
We went about our morning slowly, cleaning the house, preparing lunch, making sure everything was ready. I even baked a small cake, chocolate, his favorite.
By afternoon, the house smelled warm and sweet, and my heart felt lighter than it had all week.
By the time the car pulled into our street, the sun was setting behind the Morumbi trees, painting the sky in shades of orange and violet.
I could see him before the car even stopped, that familiar lean frame, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, the same determined stride, but something about him felt new.
I stepped out before Bosco even turned off the engine.
"Ricardo!"
He looked up, smiling, and in that instant the week of distance vanished. I met him halfway down the driveway, pulling him into a hug that was perhaps tighter than necessary.
"Mamãe," he laughed softly, "you're going to break my bones."
"Then you will stay home longer," I said, holding him for another heartbeat before letting go.
Digão came barreling out next, yelling, "You're back!!"
Ricardo threw his head back and laughed, that unguarded laugh that always melted me.
"Hope you behaved, you little shit!" He ruffled his hair.
The house came alive again.
Dinner that night was loud and bright. Bosco opened a bottle of guaraná, Digão told stories that grew wilder each minute, and Ricardo tried to answer all our questions at once.
"The training was intense," he said between mouthfuls of rice. "Morning sessions, tactical drills, then practice matches in the afternoon. The coaches were strict but fair. And Ronaldinho…" He grinned. "He's unbelievable, Mamãe. Like the ball listens to him."
I watched him as he spoke, his gestures sharper, his eyes more certain. The boy who'd left a week ago had come home standing taller, not just in posture but in presence.
Bosco noticed too. "You look more confident," he said.
"I feel it," Ricardo admitted.
"Coach João Carlos said I adapted fast for my age. I still have to get stronger, though. I was tired after every session."
"That's part of growing," Bosco said.
"Engineering, football, same rule: foundations first."
Ricardo nodded thoughtfully, filing the advice away.
After dinner, we moved to the living room for dessert. I'd saved the chocolate cake for that moment. When I placed it on the table, Ricardo grinned.
We cut slices, and as he took the first bite, his shoulders seemed to relax for the first time all evening.
"This tastes like home," he said simply.
Later that night, after everyone had gone to bed, I found myself sitting alone on the veranda. The air was cool, carrying the faint sound of crickets. The house lights glowed softly behind me, and from Ricardo's room came the muffled hum of his radio.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the night. For the first time in days, I felt whole again.
When you're a mother, you spend so much time teaching your children to be strong, to dream, to go after the world, but you never quite learn how to stay calm when they do.
This week had taught me that love isn't only in the holding. It's in letting go, and trusting that what you've taught them will carry them safely through whatever fields they walk.
Sunday came bright and clear. We went to Mass together our first as a complete family since France. The church was crowded, the wooden benches filled with familiar faces and the scent of candles.
Ricardo walked beside Bosco, his Bible tucked under one arm. I saw the faintest trace of a young man replacing the boy.
The priest spoke about faith as a kind of waiting, not passive, but patient. "To believe," he said, "is to trust even when you cannot see the road ahead."
I glanced at Ricardo. His eyes were fixed ahead, but I knew he was listening. His faith was quiet, but steady, like Bosco's. Mine had always been noisier, full of pleading and promises, but I think all roads lead to him.
After Mass, as we walked home, he said softly,
"Mamãe, I think I understand what Father meant."
"What part, Kaká?"
"That waiting doesn't mean doing nothing. It means being ready when it's time."
I looked at him, surprised by his calm certainty.
After Mass, people came to greet us.
"How's our young star?" one parishioner asked.
Ricardo blushed. "Just training hard, senhor."
He still has a hard time accepting praise. He gets it from his father.
"Keep your feet on the ground," the man said kindly.
"He will," I answered before Ricardo could. "Both feet."
The walk home was filled with chatter, plans for lunch, jokes about Bosco's attempts at French during the trip, and Digão arguing that he should get to pick the movie that night "since I suffered most while Ricardo was gone."
Bosco raised an eyebrow. "Suffered? You ate extra dessert every night."
"That was an emotional support dessert!"
Digão said earnestly, and we all burst into laughter. I do not know where he hears these things.
That afternoon, I sat in the living room while Ricardo unpacked in the next room. His bag lay open, clothes neatly folded, a few stray notes sticking out from his journal. I glanced through the doorway and saw him pause, staring at one of his boots for a long moment, thoughtful, almost reverent.
I noticed a small note that was outside.
His handwriting was clean but small, like he didn't want to waste space.
It said: "July 15: learned that talent is nothing without consistency. I need to be stronger, faster, and calmer. I want to make my family proud."
I traced the words with my finger. "You already do, meu amor," I said quietly.
He shrugged shyly. "I mean, proud on the field too."
I smiled.
It was such a small moment, but I knew I'd carry it forever.
Evenings returned to their rhythm after that. Bosco worked on his drafts at the desk, I read over lesson plans for the coming term, and the boys played cards or teased each other over who'd win in a one-on-one match.
But there was something different in the way the family moved now, a quiet awareness that time was starting to change us. The boys were growing, Bosco and I were learning to share space with their dreams, and our home felt at once smaller and more infinite.
One night, as we cleared the dishes, Bosco said,
"He's really growing into himself, isn't he?"
"He is," I replied. "And we'll have to keep up."
He smiled. "We always do."
We stood side by side, washing plates in warm water, our shoulders brushing. I thought about how love shifts with time, from passion to partnership, from worry to faith. The foundation remains, but the structure expands.
When he finished rinsing, Bosco leaned over and kissed my forehead. "He got your heart, you know."
"And your patience," I said.
"Then he'll be just fine."
On Friday, near the end of July, I walked to the small park by our street. The jacarandas were still bare from winter, their branches sharp against the blue sky.
Children played near the swings, their laughter echoing.
I sat on a bench, wrapped in my shawl, and let the sun warm my face.
For a moment, everything felt still. I thought of the past month, France, the match, the camp, the quiet week. It had all passed so quickly, yet it felt like we had crossed an invisible bridge together.
A woman from church passed by and stopped.
"Simone! I heard your boy did well at the camp."
"He did," I said. "He learned a lot."
She smiled. "God bless him. You must be proud."
"I am." I really am. I couldn't have wished for a better son.
After she left, I stayed a while longer, listening to the distant sound of a football being kicked somewhere. It might have been Ricardo practicing again, or some neighborhood kid chasing his own dream. Either way, it made me smile.
I whispered a prayer, as I always did: "Thank You, Lord, for his safe return. For his courage. For the peace in my heart."
The wind rustled the trees softly, as if answering.
Author's Notes:
Please let me know what you think!
Tried a chapter from the mom's POV.
It felt like it was the right time.
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