The decision formed on its own—heavy and trembling.
She opened her daughter’s pink backpack and packed diapers, wipes, a change of clothes, and the faded teddy bear Bia refused to sleep without. Her hands shook. She leaned over the baby, brushed a curl from her forehead, and kissed her cheek.
“Forgive me, my love. Just for today… I promise.”
At 8:30 p.m., Amanda stood at the service entrance of the imposing Albuquerque Holdings building on Paulista Avenue. A fine drizzle fell—the kind that seems harmless but soaks your soul. Bia was hidden in an adapted baby carrier, pressed against Amanda’s chest, covered by an oversized borrowed coat.
The security guard, Mr. Osvaldo, barely looked up.
“Good evening, Amanda. You’re on the twentieth floor. It’s empty. The meeting was canceled.”
“Thank you, Mr. Osvaldo,” she replied, relief lasting only a second.
Empty was a beautiful word. Fewer eyes. Less risk. Less chance someone would see what they shouldn’t.
But he was wrong.
The service elevator rose painfully slowly. Ten. Fifteen. Eighteen. Twenty. When the doors opened, Amanda almost ran to the locker room. She checked the hallways. Silence. She carefully took Bia out.