Maria Vitória Bocci

The days went by, and the atmosphere at home grew increasingly hostile.

My mother was always busy, distracted by her own concerns, barely noticing what was happening around her. I, on the other hand, had college responsibilities—final exams, practical internships coming up, the end of the semester—but none of it seemed enough to keep me away from Marcelo's visits.

Sometimes, I could hardly believe how he managed to be present without being invited, showing up in every corner of the house, always with that gaze he couldn’t hide. He seemed to be everywhere, always too close, as if he wanted to occupy every space. Every move I made was followed by him, and I no longer knew how to react.

It became routine for me to be in my room, trying to study or rest, when I would hear the door creak open. He never knocked. He just walked in, and the mere sound of his footsteps seemed to fill the room with a tension I couldn’t break.

At first, I tried to be polite, pretended I didn’t mind. But over time, it became unbearable.

One afternoon, I was sitting on my bed, books spread around, when he entered without warning. His eyes, always insistent, immediately landed on me, as if studying me, and soon the conversation started, though I had little to say.

“Mavi, you know life isn’t just this rush of studying, right?” he said, approaching slowly. His voice was too soft, as if trying to soothe me, but I could feel the pressure behind his words, the weight they carried.

I tried to focus on my books, avoid eye contact, but he wouldn’t give up. The closer he came, the more palpable the tension became. I felt his eyes on me, as if he were undressing me without even touching me. A growing discomfort took over me, and all I could do was keep my head down, forcing myself to ignore him.

Then he sat next to me on the bed—far too close. The distance between us disappeared. He touched my shoulder with a motion so soft it might have seemed affectionate, but there was something in that touch that made my body tremble. It wasn’t a caress. It was a possessive touch, something that made me feel violated.

“You’re so tense, Mavi… You should relax more, enjoy life…” he whispered, sweet tone, but the intent behind the words was too clear.

I didn’t know what to say. All I wanted was for him to leave. But he never stayed long. Each visit felt more like an intrusion than a moment of connection. He would start with seemingly innocent conversations, but soon his words turned heavier, his gestures too close.

That afternoon, while he talked about something irrelevant, I realized how close he really was. The warmth of his body seemed to invade my space, encroaching on something I wanted to keep to myself. He breathed more deeply; I knew he was leaning in—maybe to touch me, maybe to test boundaries—and the worst part was that I couldn’t find a way out.

At one moment, he looked me straight in the eyes, as if wanting to say something without words, and I felt a brush against my lower stomach. An unwanted touch. The heat of his body against mine made my skin crawl and my throat dry.

Then he smiled. A slow, almost triumphant smile, like he had conquered another piece of me without my consent.

“You don’t have to be afraid, Mavi…” he said softly, like it was a secret between us. “I only want what’s best for you.”

All I felt was disgust.

He got up and left, as if nothing had happened, leaving behind the feeling that he would always be there, ready to invade again, to test the limits once more.

I stood there, frozen, not knowing what to think. The silence in the house now seemed to suffocate me, and the weight of the dragging days only grew. I didn’t know how much longer I could take it. Every step, every movement of his felt like a silent threat, a constant reminder that, inside that house, I wasn’t safe.

It was Saturday night when new guests arrived. I found it strange—low music, people chatting, laughter, drinks, buffet. I didn’t remember any birthday. I entered the house puzzled by the sudden party: white balloons, a “Welcome” name on a panel, scattered guests. I greeted everyone with the excuse of taking a shower after a long Saturday.

I went to my room, organizing my materials, when my aunt arrived. Helena wasn’t my aunt by blood, but I couldn’t recall a single life event where she hadn’t been there, with her sincere smile and attentive eyes.

“Look how much you’ve grown, girl!” she said, hugging me tightly. “You’re beautiful!”

We talked in my room. I spoke about college, the internship. I tried to ignore what I really wanted to say.

“And how’s your mom’s pregnancy going?” she asked, like it was obvious.

My body froze.

“What?”

“Oh… she didn’t tell you? I thought you already knew…”

I jumped up. I ran straight to the living room.

My mother was surrounded by guests, sitting on Marcelo’s lap, a glass of juice in hand, smiling as friends congratulated her.

Pregnant.

By him.

Everything made sense. The touches. The smiles. The forced closeness. And her… she chose to ignore it.

After the guests left, I went to her room. Marcelo was still busy seeing off the buffet staff.

I knocked gently.

“Mom, we need to talk.”

She gave me a happy look.

“What now, Maria Vitória? Came to congratulate me?” She opened her arms, but I shook my head.

I swallowed hard. Yes, I was frustrated. She was pregnant. And I, the last to know. But something much worse bothered me.

“Oh, here we go again with your drama,” she sighed.

I walked in and closed the door behind me.

“This isn’t drama. It’s serious. It’s about Marcelo.”

She sighed again.

“What about him? Did he do something you didn’t like again? Because honestly, I’m tired of your drama with him.”

“He kissed me. By force. Here at home,” I said, looking her in the eyes.

She was silent for a moment. Then laughed, nervously.

“You must be joking.”

I shook my head.

“I’m not joking. He waited until you were in the pool, came to my room… and he… he kissed me. I pushed him away, yelled at him. I was disgusted, Mom.”

She stared back at me, lifting her index finger with that gold ring shaped like a knot.

“Wait a minute. Are you telling me that Marcelo—my boyfriend—tried to force you? What kind of absurd thing is that, Maria Vitória?”

It was painful to say. Especially to someone who clearly didn’t want to believe it.

“The truth. He crossed the line, Mom! And I’m telling you because you need to know who you’re sleeping with!”

“Or do you want me to fight with him because of you? Is that it? Are you jealous because he treats me well? Because I finally have someone who values me?”

“Jealous?! I’m trying to protect myself! And protect you too! He’s an abuser!”

She raised her hand, asking for silence.

“ENOUGH! I know Marcelo! He would never do that. You must have misunderstood or… are making all this up to leave me alone again. You’ve always hated when I’m happy!”

I started crying, my voice cracking.

“You’re calling me a liar?”

She sat on the bed and pulled my hand.

“I’m saying maybe you’re confused. You’ve always been needy, always needed attention. Maybe you… hinted something… maybe he misunderstood.”

I pulled away, in shock.

“You have no idea what you’re saying. I… I’m your daughter. And you choose him?”

Her eyes filled with anger and confusion.

“I choose the truth. And as far as I know, Marcelo has never given me a reason to doubt him.”

I whispered,

“You just chose him. Even after everything.”

She stood up, firm.

“You’re making this up because you can’t stand my happiness,” she said, eyes full of hurt. “Marcelo is the father of my child. And you’ll have to accept that. You must be jealous that you’re no longer my only daughter.”

She didn’t believe me.

No one did.

I packed a backpack and left. I went to Aunt Helena’s house without looking back.