Aurora: The Billionaire's Heaven On Earth

Aurora

 It’s a rainy afternoon, when the neighbor next door knocks on the gate, letting me know that there was someone on the phone wanting to talk to me urgently. I hurry and run out into the rain, imagining the worst. When I answer, I hear that familiar voice on the other end of the line: it’s my father. I roll my eyes inevitably. A long sigh before saying anything.

“Hi, dad”

“Your mother is in the hospital”

He says this without me feeling any emotion in his voice.

“I need you to come over here, Aurora, to help me take care of her”

“Is it serious?”

“I don’t know, maybe”

“Don’t know?”

My voice comes out angrier than it should.

“Are you coming or not?”

“And how do I do with my work? Or do you think only you work here?”

“Put him down”

I’m amazed at my father’s arrogance, in not caring one bit about my life.

“He left home because he wanted to, so don’t blame me for your failures.”

He could only be kidding, I think.

“If you are willing to support me while I am taking care of my mother, I will go without any problem.”

There’s a silence on the other end of the line that I thought would never end.

“Come as fast as you can.”

He hangs up the phone without waiting for any response from me.

I wonder if he really cares about my mother to the point of calling me six months after I left home, asking me to come back. No questions about how I’m doing, if I need anything, or say I miss you. None of this was said or mentioned. I’m still standing in the middle of my neighbor’s living room, phone in hand, wondering at what point I lost control of my own life. Visibly worried about my mother, I go back to my rented room in the suburbs of Brasília and start packing my things to go home.

I was a good girl, and bad things didn’t happen to good people. That’s what my mother told me, that’s what I believed for a long time. But then, high school graduation came, and I was at a loss for what to do with my own destiny. I watched my old classmates go to college, get a good job, take courses, and I, well, I wanted to be just like them, but all I had in my luggage was talent and a lot of uncertainties. Things were tough. My mom didn’t have the money to pay for college or anything like that, and all I had left was to study on my own. I didn’t complain. Good girls understood when life needed to be tough. I didn’t have any friends anymore, and my fear of being judged drove everyone away. It was  books that I found in my refuge. I remember my writing teacher saying how good I was at writing, that I still needed to be polished, but that I was certainly on the right path to be an important writer. I believed that and started writing my first book. Furthermore, I spent hours in my room, polishing myself, writing, creating my own world and when I was asked what I did so much in front of that laptop, my answer was always the same: I’m studying. Likewise, I kept that secret for a long time, until I shared it with my mother. I might not have the permanent resources every budding writer needs to get their first work published, but I had my mother’s unconditional love.

“I should get a job” every time my father saw me studying, he always said the same thing “until you manage to pass a civil service exam, I’m already retired”.

“Don’t be exaggerated, Claudio” my mother was the only one who always defended me “she needs incentives”.

“And isn’t getting a job a good incentive?” he said. "You need to stop putting your hand on that girl’s head, Desiree. She’s not a kid anymore, and I’m not going to spend the rest of my life supporting her”.

Good things don’t always happen to good girls, and my dad was proof of that. Sometimes I got the feeling he hated me, and that was one of the reasons I wanted to leave the house so early. The pressure to find a job was constant and unbearable, and they forced me to give up my dream and obey my father. The fights were intense and painful. That was another reason. I would have to fend for myself. Despite not knowing how to start, taking care of my own existence from that moment on, it would undoubtedly be the best decision I would make in my entire life. It would be, if I really followed the plan I’ve laid out my whole life for a bright future.

I should have been happy, though, when I got a job. Twenty-five kilometers away from home, in a town where I didn’t know anyone, on a salary just above the minimum wage. I could call it freedom, but there was something dull about getting something I really needed but didn’t want to have. Being honest with myself, working in a cafeteria, serving people just to satisfy my father’s wishes, was far from my plans and I would pay a high price for it. Living in a room measuring thirty square meters, with only an old mattress donated by the neighbor and with an uncertain future, certainly did not bring me the freedom that I wanted so much, on the contrary, I was living in one of the most dangerous cities in Brasília; the setbacks were constant. Sometimes I regretted leaving home, but the pressure was too great. I was immature and deep down, I just wanted to prove to my father that I could manage without him. It was a sweet illusion. I remember my mother crying to see me go. I remember her calling me whenever she could to see if I was okay or still alive. Now she was in a hospital with God knows what illness, needing me. I would drop whatever it took to take care of her. In any situation, she would have me by her side until the end.

I called my boss, letting him know that I’m returning to my city for an indefinite period. That was an unintentional resignation, but he is understandable and in the end he wishes me luck. Not only that, but I return home without guilt, with my head held high. After all, that house only belongs to my mother, who had inherited it when her mother died. Even though my father was the man who supported the house, everything in there was hers. I take the bus that takes me to the Plano Pilot bus station and from there I take another bus that takes me to my hometown. Stepping onto that street again fills me with nostalgia. From childhood, I spent running around there, having fun with the few friends I had. It’s only been six months, I tell myself as I fight back the tears. It hasn’t been that long. There is a gate in front of my old house. I know that my father is not at home, because he would not stop a day of work to take care of my mother, let alone receive me. I remember that I still have the spare keys in my purse. Likewise, I take them, open the door and go inside. The smell is still the same, things are still in the same place, my room is still the same as the last time I was here. A tear runs down my face when I see a picture of me and my mother on the nightstand by my old bed. Oh mother, I pray that this illness is not so serious and that soon you will be with me again.