Guilherme’s voice sliced through the air of the living room like a whip. There was marble beneath his Italian shoes, lamps that shimmered like private constellations, and an expensive silence that seemed to belong to someone… until the solid wood door burst open and Osvaldo’s worn suitcases flew out onto the sidewalk like trash. The father said nothing at first. He only looked at his own hands: large, cracked, with nails marked by years of soil and labor. Hands that had built fences, healed animals, sustained a family when there was nothing but sun and hunger.
Osvaldo wore an old hat and simple cattle rancher’s clothes. In that mansion, his presence was an uncomfortable shadow, a memory Guilherme wanted to erase. And yet, that “memory” was the origin of everything: his son’s studies, the expensive suit, the surname spoken with respect at gatherings, the immaculate garden behind the high walls.
Sabrina, Guilherme’s wife, appeared like a perfume that was too sweet and too strong. She didn’t even have the courtesy to call him “sir.” She said it like someone spitting out a word: “Osvaldo.” Her gaze swept over his stained boots, his work pants, his hat. And in her eyes there was no doubt, only contempt.
“This Saturday is the party,” she announced, the phone still warm in her hand. “Important people will be there. The banker’s wife. People who matter. And you… you can’t be here.”
Osvaldo slowly chewed a piece of bread with cheese on the back patio, watching a bird in the garden as if the world were simple, as if life weren’t full of masks.
“I like parties, girl,” he said calmly. “If you want, I can even grill some meat.”
Sabrina let out a laugh that was anything but humorous.
“Grill some meat? Do you think this is a ranch? For God’s sake… you’re going to embarrass us.” Your clothes, the way you talk, your mannerisms… you’re going to ruin everything.
At that moment, Guilherme walked in, adjusting his tie. Ready for “his” business, “his” life, “his” image. He saw Sabrina’s tense face, and her father standing tall, upright, like a tree that has learned to withstand storms.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, tired before even starting.
“I’m telling your father he can’t stay for the party,” Sabrina replied, crossing her arms. “He’ll embarrass us.”
Guilherme looked at Osvaldo. And Osvaldo saw, like someone recognizing a wounded animal, the hesitation in his son. He saw the fear. Fear of not being accepted by those people with their refined laughter, fear of being seen as “the son of the caipira,” fear of feeling that everything he had built could crumble with a single glance from someone else.
“Dad…” Guilherme began, adjusting his tie as if that gesture could ease his conscience. “Sabrina’s right. Maybe… maybe it would be best if you took a vacation.”
Osvaldo blinked, as if the blow hadn’t been a word but a punch.
“Vacation?” he repeated in a low voice. “Vacation from what, son? From seeing you?”
“It’s not that,” Guilherme stammered, but Sabrina finished him off with practical cruelty.
“Of course it is. You don’t fit in. You walk around the house in those dirty boots. You talk to the staff like they’re your friends. You’re a disgrace.”
The word “disgrace” killed the taste of bread in Osvaldo’s mouth. He sat up slowly. He didn’t shout. He didn’t swear. But his voice came out with a weight that wasn’t anger, but history.
“I’m your husband’s father, girl.” Have some respect.
“Respect is earned,” she spat. “And you haven’t done anything to deserve it in this circle.”
Osvaldo felt the air grow heavier. He looked at his son the way one looks at someone who is slipping away.
“I gave you everything,” he said. “I worked from dawn till dusk so you could study, so you wouldn’t have to get your hands dirty like I did.”
Guilherme swallowed.
“And I appreciate it, Dad. I really do. But things have changed. I have a position. I’m president. I have an image… and, frankly, the ‘son of a cattle rancher’ image doesn’t help in business.”
It was a physical pain. Osvaldo felt an emptiness in his chest, as if someone had ripped a piece of his heart out with pliers.
“President?” he whispered. “Do you really think you’re president?”
Guilherme exploded, fueled by months of frustration and years of arrogance.
“I’m the president! I make the decisions! You wouldn’t even understand what I’m doing! You’re stuck in the past, with your cows and your pasture.”
Sabrina, impatient, issued her ultimatum like someone signing a death warrant:
“Either he leaves, or I leave. And if I leave, I’m taking half of everything you think you own.”
Guilherme paled. And Osvaldo understood in that instant that the choice had been made. Not out of love, but out of fear. The son had chosen the false glitter.
“Dad, please, pack your bags,” Guilherme said, now cold. “Don’t make this any harder.”
Osvaldo walked toward his little room at the back of the house, that tiny room they had “assigned” him as if he were an unwelcome guest. He stuffed some things into his worn leather suitcase.
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