The crying was constant, high-pitched, and piercing, like an alarm siren that never stops. It echoed off the mansion’s cold marble walls, seeped under the solid wood doors, and pierced Marcos Silveira’s brain. It wasn’t just noise; it was a constant, painful, throbbing reminder of the tragedy that had shattered his life eight months earlier.
“I paid her three thousand reales a month! Three thousand!” Marcos bellowed, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, as he watched the woman drag her suitcase toward the exit. “And still, nobody can get those two babies to stop crying! Is there no one competent in this city?”
She was the twelfth nanny to quit. In just eight months, twelve professionals had passed through that house, and all of them fled, defeated by two children who weighed barely eight kilos each. Fernanda, a robust forty-year-old woman with two decades of experience raising other people’s children, stopped in the doorway. Her hands trembled. She turned slowly, and in her eyes there was no fear of the employer, but a mixture of pity and horror.
“Mr. Marcos, listen carefully,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ve never seen anything like it. These children don’t cry from hunger, or colic, or sleepiness. They cry for eight hours straight without stopping. They don’t look at their toys; they stare at the ceiling, at the walls, as if they see ghosts. As if… as if they were possessed.”
Marcos let out a bitter, dry laugh, devoid of any humor. “Possessed? They’re eight months old, for God’s sake. They’re normal babies.”
“Normal babies don’t cry like that,” Fernanda replied, staring at him. “Normal babies calm down when they’re held. But above all, sir, normal babies have parents who hug them.”
The sentence hit Marcos like a physical slap. He felt heat rise to his face, a mixture of shame and a defensive fury that had been consuming him since the funeral. “How dare you?” he hissed through gritted teeth. “I work sixteen hours a day so you don’t lack anything. You have the best clothes, the best food, the best medical care.”
“They have everything but love,” she whispered, gripping the handle of her suitcase. “I just hope I find someone who can save them, because those children are suffering in their souls, not their bodies.”
The door slammed shut, leaving Marcos alone in the vast entrance hall. The silence lasted barely a second before the shouts from upstairs intensified again, piercing the air. Pedro and Paulo. His sons. Or as he called them in his darkest moments: the guilty ones.
He climbed the stairs with heavy steps, like a condemned man walking to the gallows. He stopped in front of the nursery door. Through the crack, he saw the two fine wooden cribs shudder. Pedro’s face was red, contorted with the effort of screaming; Paulo, beside him, seemed to share the same invisible pain, his fists clenched and his body taut as a bow. He didn’t go in. He couldn’t. Every time he looked at them, he didn’t see two innocent babies; he saw Isabela’s eyes closing forever. He saw the blood, the monitors beeping, the chaos of the operating room.
—Carmen—he shouted, his voice hoarse with despair.
The housekeeper came running out of the kitchen, drying her hands on her apron. Her face reflected the weariness of someone living in a house at war. “Yes, sir?”
—I need another nanny. Today. Call all the agencies. Double the salary if necessary. I don’t care about the money, I just want silence.
Carmen lowered her gaze, nervously fiddling with the hem of her apron. “Sir… I already tried yesterday, when Fernanda threatened to leave. No agency wants to send staff here.”
Marcos froze. “What do you mean they don’t want to?”
—They say this house has a bad reputation. That the nannies leave traumatized. An agency has even blacklisted us. They say the atmosphere here is… unbearable.
Marcos felt the ground give way beneath his feet. He ran his hands through his hair, desperate. He had tried everything: nurses, sleep specialists, older women, young women with university degrees. They all ran away. What was he going to do? He couldn’t take care of them. He couldn’t even touch them without feeling like he was breaking inside.
“Sir,” Carmen said timidly, “there’s a girl at the service entrance. She came because of the cleaning ad, not the babysitting one. But she says she has experience with difficult children. She heard the shouting from the street and… well, she insists on speaking with you.”
“A cleaner?” Marcos looked at her incredulously. “I need an expert, Carmen, not someone who scrubs floors. The house is already clean. What’s dirty is… everything else.”
—I know, sir. But he’s been very insistent. And frankly, we have no other choice.
The shouts upstairs grew louder, as if the twins knew they were arguing their fate. Marcos closed his eyes, defeated. “Fine. Let him in. But he shouldn’t expect miracles.”
Elena Silva didn’t seem like the solution to his problems. When she walked through the door, Marcos saw a young woman of twenty-eight, wearing faded jeans, a simple white T-shirt, and her blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She didn’t have the bearing of the starched-uniformed nannies he usually hired. Yet there was something in her eyes—a quiet firmness, a serene depth—that puzzled him.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Marcos,” she said, confidently extending her hand. “My name is Elena Silva.”
“I’ll be blunt, Elena,” he said, ignoring her greeting. “I don’t need you to clean. I need you to quiet my children. If you heard them from outside, you know what you’re dealing with.”
“It must be very hard for everyone,” she said. It wasn’t a polite remark; it sounded as if she truly understood the burden he carried.
“Tough isn’t the word,” Marcos sighed. “I haven’t slept in eight months. I’ve lost million-dollar contracts because I look like a zombie in meetings. Twelve people have quit. The doctors say they’re healthy, but they cry like they’re being tortured.”
—Can I see them?
—Why? You said you were a domestic worker, not a nanny.
“I don’t have a degree hanging on the wall, sir,” Elena replied calmly, “but I raised a little brother who cried just like yours. My parents died when he was two months old. I was eighteen. I know what it’s like to see a baby cry from pain, and I know what it’s like to see one cry from longing.”
Something in her tone made Marcos lower his guard. There was no judgment in her voice, only facts. “Okay. Come upstairs. But only to look around.”
They entered the room. The atmosphere was stifling. Expensive toys imported from Europe filled the shelves, and mobiles playing classical music spun aimlessly. And in the center, chaos. Pedro and Paulo were crying with a blood-curdling desperation. It wasn’t the cry of “change my diaper”; it was a scream for help.
Elena didn’t rush to move the mobiles or make funny noises. She stayed still, observing. She approached the cribs silently. Pedro had his arms stretched upwards, grasping at the air. Paulo was curled up, protecting himself from a world he didn’t understand.
“How often do they pick them up, sir?” Elena asked without looking at him.
The question made Marcos tense. “They have everything they need. Bottles on time, clean diapers…”
—I didn’t ask you about logistics, sir. I asked you about contact. Skin. Warmth.
“I don’t need parenting lessons,” Marcos exploded. “I need solutions.”
“It’s not a lesson,” she said, turning slowly. “It’s a diagnosis. You say they’re physically healthy, and I believe you. But babies sense the energy of the house. They sense abandonment, fear, and above all, rejection.”
Marcos clenched his jaw. “What do you mean?”
—I mean, sometimes babies don’t cry because their tummies hurt. They cry because they feel alone in a room full of people. May I try to help them? I charge two thousand reais.
—Two thousand? That’s nothing compared to what I used to pay.
“Because I’m not here for the money, sir. I’m here because I know those children are asking for something you don’t know how to give them. I’ll start tomorrow.”
When Elena left that afternoon, Marcos was left with a strange feeling. For the first time, someone hadn’t run away in fear. Someone had told him the truth to his face. That night was the last time Marcos ignored the screams with a clear conscience, because the next day, Elena would arrive to uncover the truths he had buried under layers of pain and pride.
Elena arrived promptly at seven. Shouts already filled the house. Carmen greeted her with a sorrowful expression, but Elena went upstairs decisively. She didn’t go straight to comfort the babies. She did something no one had ever done before: she assessed her surroundings.
She walked down the second-floor hallway. It was a long, elegant corridor, decorated with a coldness. All the doors were closed. “Carmen,” Elena asked, “where does Mr. Marcos sleep?”
—At the end of the corridor. As far away from the children as possible.
“And this door?” Elena pointed to a dark oak door, right next to the twins’ room. It had a different, sturdier lock.
Carmen lowered her voice, as if speaking of it were sacrilege. “That was Mrs. Isabela and Mr. Marcos’s room. The master bedroom. He locked it the day he came back from the hospital without her. No one has been in it for eight months. It’s exactly as he left it.”
Elena nodded, feeling a chill run down her spine. She approached the door and pressed her ear against it. Deathly silence. Then she entered the babies’ room. The crying was deafening. Pedro and Paulo were in their cribs, but Elena noticed something she had missed the day before.
—Carmen, come here. Look at this.
The housekeeper came in. “What’s wrong?”
—Look where they’re looking. They’re not looking at the door we came in through. They’re not looking at the window.
Carmen watched intently. The two babies had their heads turned toward the right wall. Their red, swollen eyes were fixed on the wallpaper. “They’re looking at the wall that connects to their mother’s room,” Carmen murmured, bringing a hand to her mouth. “My God.”
“Exactly,” Elena said firmly. “They’re not crying into the void. They’re looking for her. They know she should be there, on the other side of that wall. They feel her absence like a phantom limb.”
At that moment, Marcos burst into the room, his suit half-on and his face contorted with rage. “What are you all doing standing here chatting while my children are screaming their lungs out?” he shouted. “Do something!”
Elena turned, and for the first time, her gaze was defiant. “We understand why they’re crying, sir. And you know it too, even if you don’t want to admit it.”
—Enough with this psychological nonsense!
“Your children are looking toward your wife’s room,” Elena said, pointing to the wall. “They’re calling for her. And they know you’ve closed that door forever. They know you’ve erased their mother from this house.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the crying. Marcos paled. “You don’t know anything. I erased the memories because it hurts. Because I can’t see her clothes, her photos…”
“And that’s why he doesn’t touch his children either?” Elena interrupted, taking a step toward him. “Because every time he looks at them, he sees the cause of his death, right?”
“Shut up!” Marcos roared, backing away as if he’d been hit. “You have no right! They killed her!”
The confession hung in the air. Carmen stifled a scream. Marcos was breathing heavily, realizing what he had just said aloud for the first time.
“Isabela was healthy,” Marcos continued, his voice breaking as he fell to his knees, overcome with emotion. “She was perfect until she got pregnant. I convinced her. She was afraid, she had premonitions, but I insisted we have a family. And the pregnancy killed her. A hemorrhage during childbirth. They lived, and she died. They are my children, yes, but they are also the executioners of the love of my life.”
Elena didn’t back down. Her voice softened, but she remained firm. “Mr. Marcos, my mother died giving birth to my brother. And for two months, I hated that baby. I thought the same as you. Until my father died in an accident and I was left alone with him. Then I understood that my brother wasn’t my mother’s killer; he was all I had left of her. Isabela died to give you life, not so you would hate you.”
The twins, exhausted, lowered the volume of their crying to a constant moan, a plea.
“If she could come down right now,” Elena said, “what do you think she would say to her? Do you think she would say ‘she hates our children’? Or would she ask her to love them both?”
Marcos covered his face with his hands. His shoulders trembled. “I can’t… I’m afraid to touch them and feel her leave completely.”
“It’s the other way around,” Elena said. “If he hugs them, he’ll feel her. Carmen, the keys.”
“What?” Marcos asked, looking up.
—Isabela’s room. We have to open it. Her children need to feel that their mother hasn’t been erased, and you need to truly say goodbye, not lock your grief behind a door.
—I can’t go in there.
—He won’t do it alone. Let’s all go.
They walked down the hallway like a funeral procession seeking to transform into a resurrection. Marcos was pale, as if he couldn’t breathe. Carmen, her hands trembling, pulled out the bunch of keys and searched for the one that hadn’t been used in eight months. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the house.
The door opened.
The air that left the room was stale, heavy with dust and a sweet, lingering scent: roses. Isabela’s perfume. Marcos stumbled, leaning against the doorframe. Everything was exactly the same. The bed made with the silk sheets she had chosen, her half-read book on the nightstand, the wardrobe ajar with a blue dress peeking out. It was a time capsule.
“It smells like her,” Marcos whispered, his eyes filled with tears.
Elena entered respectfully, taking in the details. There were photos everywhere: the wedding, trips, and above all, pregnancy photos. On the nightstand, a picture of Isabela smiling, cradling her enormous belly with an expression of pure joy.
“She wasn’t sad, sir,” Elena said. “Look at her. She was radiant.”
Carmen approached the wardrobe and bent down. “Mr. Marcos… there’s something I never told you. Two weeks before the birth, Mrs. Isabela gave me this. She made me promise that I would only give it to you when you were ready to stop blaming the children.”
Carmen took out a carved wooden box. Inside, there were envelopes. Many envelopes. “They’re letters,” Carmen explained. “One for each of the children’s birthdays up to eighteen years old. And one for you.”
Marcos took the envelope that said “For Marcos, in case I’m not here.” His hands were trembling so much he could barely tear the paper. Elena came over and put a hand on his shoulder, giving him strength.
He opened the letter and began to read aloud, his voice breaking with sobs:
“My beloved Marcos, if you are reading this, it means my fears have come true and I am not physically with you. But don’t cry for me. Every second of this pregnancy has been the happiest moment of my life. I know you feel guilty, I know you think you pushed me into this. But I want you to know something: I chose you. I chose to be a mother. I chose to take the risk to see your little faces.”
Don’t blame our children. They are the fruit of our love, not its end. They are my gift to you. If you love me, love them with the same intensity. Don’t let my death be in vain by turning our home into a place of sorrow. Be the wonderful father I know you are. I will always love you.
The paper fell to the floor. Marcos collapsed. He wept. Not the restrained, bitter tears of the last few months, but a visceral, deep cry, the kind that cleanses the soul. He wept for the guilt, for the absence, and for the lost time. Elena and Carmen wept with him, silently, allowing the pain to flow.
“She forgave me…” Marcos stammered between sobs. “She wanted this.”
“She wanted you to be happy,” Elena said, wiping away her tears. “And your children are waiting for that father.”
Marcos stood up, wiping his face with his shirtsleeve, a childish and honest gesture. “Let’s go with them.”
They returned to the twins’ room. The babies were still awake, but the crying had stopped, as if they sensed the change in the house’s energy. They were expectant.
Elena approached Pedro’s crib. “Pick him up, Marcos. Try it.”
This time, Marcos didn’t hesitate. He approached the crib, fearful, yes, but with a different kind of fear. He stretched out his arms and picked up Pedro. The baby, surprised by the touch, looked at him with those big, dark eyes, identical to Isabela’s.
Feeling the warmth of his father’s chest, Peter sighed. A long, deep sigh of utter relief. And he rested his head on Marcos’s shoulder.
“She recognizes me…” Marcos whispered, amazed.
“She recognizes his heartbeat,” Elena said, smiling. “That’s what she’s been searching for all this time.”
Paulo, in the other crib, stretched out his arms, jealous. Marcos, with endearing clumsiness, sat in the rocking chair and asked Elena to hand him Paulo. And there, for the first time in eight months, Marcos Silveira held both his sons at the same time. The silence that filled the room was magical. It wasn’t an empty silence; it was a silence of peace, of fullness. The babies closed their eyes, secure, and fell asleep in a matter of minutes.
“You have saved my family, Elena,” said Marcos, looking at his children as if they were the greatest treasure in the world.
—No, sir. I only helped him see what was already there.
That night, Marcos slept in the guest room, next to the children’s room, with the door open. And for the first time, no one cried in the Silveira house.
The transformation was astonishing. In the following days, Marcos didn’t go to work. He stayed home learning to change diapers, prepare bottles, and distinguish between cries of hunger and cries of sleepiness. Elena was by his side every step of the way, guiding him not as an employee, but as a life coach.
A week later, Marcos did something unthinkable. “Elena, get the children ready. We’re going to the office.”
—To the office? Are you sure?
—I want everyone to know my children.
When Marcos entered his company building with a baby in each arm and Elena by his side, silence fell over the lobby. The feared CEO, the ice man, was smiling.
They went up to the executive floor. Sandra, his secretary, almost fell out of her chair. Rodrigo, his partner, came out of the meeting room looking ashen. “Marcos, what are you doing? We have a video conference with the Chinese investors.”
“Cancel it or postpone it,” Marcos said calmly, sitting down in his leather armchair and settling Pedro on his lap. “Today is family day. Rodrigo, this is Pedro and Paulo. My sons.”
Rodrigo, who knew of his friend’s deep depression, was speechless. He saw the light in Marcos’s eyes, a light he thought extinguished forever. “They’re… they’re just like Isabela,” Rodrigo murmured, his voice filled with emotion.
—I know. And that’s why, from now on, things are going to change. I’m not going to live in this office. I’m going to be a father.
Elena watched from a corner, her heart full. She had come to that house looking for a salary and had found a mission. Seeing that man, once broken, now feeding his children with a bottle in the middle of a boardroom, was the greatest reward she could imagine.
Time flew by, healing the wounds day by day.
Six months later, the house was unrecognizable. There were toys in the living room, music in the air, and laughter. Lots of laughter. It was February 15th, a date laden with symbolism: the twins’ first birthday and the first anniversary of Isabela’s death.
Elena was in the kitchen when she heard Marcos shout from the living room. “Elena! Carmen! Come quickly!”
She ran, thinking someone had fallen. When she reached the living room, she stopped dead in her tracks. Marcos was kneeling on the rug, his arms outstretched and tears in his eyes.
Pedro stood there, unsteady, trying to pull himself up from the sofa. He took one, two, three unsteady steps and fell into his father’s arms. “He walked!” Marcos shouted, euphoric. “He walked!”
And as if it were a competition, Paulo got up holding onto Elena’s leg and also took his first steps towards Marcos.
“Both of them!” exclaimed Carmen, clapping from the doorway. “It’s a miracle!”
“It’s a gift from her,” Elena said softly. “Today, on her special day, they’ve given us the gift of her first steps.”
Marcos hugged his children tightly, burying his face in their talcum powder-scented necks. Then he looked at Elena. His eyes shone with infinite gratitude. “Elena, I need to ask you something.”
—Tell me, Marcos—they had long since abandoned extreme formalities.
“You’re not our employee anymore. You’re family. These children adore you. Carmen adores you. And I… I don’t know what would have become of us without you. I want you to be their godmother. Officially.”
Elena felt a lump in her throat. She, who had arrived with a suitcase full of old clothes and a mended heart, now had a home. “It would be an honor,” she replied, her voice breaking.
At that moment, Pedro looked at Marcos, pointed at his face with a chubby finger and said, clearly and loudly: —Dad.
The world stopped for a moment. —Dad—Paulo repeated, imitating his brother.
Marcos wept, but this time they were tears of pure joy. He gazed at the ceiling, as if he could see through it, beyond the sky. “I hope you’re seeing this, my love,” he whispered. “Our children are walking. Our children are talking. And we’re okay.”
That afternoon, they all went to the cemetery. It wasn’t a somber visit. They brought white roses and colorful balloons. Marcos told Isabela’s gravestone about her first steps, her first words, how Elena had stitched together the broken pieces of her family.
As he returned home, the sun was setting, bathing the mansion in a warm, golden light. The house that had once been a silent tomb was now full of life. The millionaire had learned that true wealth wasn’t in his bank accounts, but in the little arms that held him close each night. And Elena, the maid no one wanted to hire, smiled, knowing she had done more than just a job: she had saved a future.
