—an excerpt—
My dearest Emerico,
I told myself I would wait until morning to write, when the house was quieter. But the baby has been restless, and so I have been restless.
I am trying to be strong. I know that is what you need from me. I know you left because you believe there is more for us than this island can give. I believe that too. Most days. Some days, I am angry with you for making me believe in a future so far away. Then I feel the baby move, and I forgive you.
Your mother says I am carrying low, and that means a boy, but my mother says not to listen to anyone who claims to know these things. Your father says the child kicks like a mule and must be a true Alvares. I told him that if our child is stubborn, he could just as easily be mine. He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his wine. I wish you had been there to hear it.
I feel sad for all the small things you are missing. You are missing the way my belly shifts to one side when I sit. You are missing the way I have started sleeping with one hand beneath my belly. You are missing your mother arguing with my mother over whether I am eating enough.
I know you are alone too. I try to imagine Canada, but my mind can’t make sense of it. I picture streets too wide, houses too tall, and snow on everything. I picture people speaking all around you in words you are still trying to learn, and your face when you do not understand. I hate that most of all. You have always hated feeling foolish.
Please do not let that place make you hard. Work hard, and learn everything you can. Save what you can. But do not let loneliness turn you sharp. I need the man who sang to me by the water. The man who wrote himself onto paper because his mouth could not be trusted with his heart.
Write when you can. Tell me the truth, even if it is difficult. I would rather have your difficult truth than a beautiful lie. And Emerico, my love, eat properly. I know you. Coffee and bread are not enough to keep a man upright.
Completely yours,
Nelinha
