Chapter 5 - The Rules of the House
The next morning, at 6:30 a.m., the kitchen of the Morumbi mansion smelled of real coffee, fresh pão de queijo, and toasted butter.
Ricardo sat at the head of the long dining table in a simple gray polo shirt and slacks, without his usual tailored suit jacket or expensive watch. He looked exhausted, but his posture was different—straight, present, and grounded.
One by one, the girls trickled into the kitchen.
Mariana came first, her eyes narrowing suspiciously when she saw Ricardo sitting there at breakfast time. Usually, he was already locked in his study or gone by helicopter to the Mantec corporate headquarters before dawn.
“You’re… still here?” Mariana asked, her voice laced with surprise.
“I cancelled my morning meetings,” Ricardo said quietly, looking up from his coffee. He gestured to the empty chair beside him. “Sit down, Miri.”
Mariana hesitated, using her childhood nickname like a shock to her system, but slowly pulled out the chair and sat down.
A moment later, the twins, Laura, Julia, and Sofía trooped in, followed by little Isabela carried in Luía’s arms.
Luía wore her usual simple white blouse and jeans, her hair tied back in its familiar messy bun. She set Isabela in her high chair, placed a warm plate of cheese bread before her, and picked up her canvas backpack from the counter.
“Wait,” Ricardo said, standing up from the table. “You’re not leaving.”
“My shift yesterday ended at five, Mr. Albuquerque,” Luía replied, adjusting the straps of her backpack. “And today is Saturday. I don't work weekends.”
“I’m offering you a full-time contract,” Ricardo said, stepping toward her. He didn't speak with the arrogance of a billionaire issuing a command; he spoke with the humility of a man asking for a lifeline. “Not as a housemaid. Not as a nanny. As the household manager and operations director of the Mendonza Albuquerque family. Name your terms. Salary, benefits, housing, university sponsorship for your night classes—whatever you need.”
The six girls went completely silent, turning their heads to watch Luía’s reaction.
Luía stood still for a long moment, weighing the offer. She looked at Ricardo, then past him to the six pairs of young eyes watching her with a fragile, desperate hope they were trying desperately to hide.
“I have three conditions, Mr. Albuquerque,” Luía said clearly.
“Name them.”
“First: You are home for dinner every single night at 7:00 p.m. sharp. No exceptions, no conference calls, no emergency board meetings.”
Ricardo nodded without hesitation. “Accepted.”
“Second: The girls do their own chores. I am here to manage the house, not to serve as an unpaid maid for teenagers who think they’re above loading a dishwasher.”
Mariana opened her mouth to protest, but caught a sharp look from her father and closed it again.
“Agreed,” Ricardo said.
“And third,” Luía continued, a faint, challenging smile touching her lips, “you start therapy on Tuesday. All of you. Together.”
Ricardo swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the condition, but he looked at his daughters—at Laura’s raw scalp, at Julia’s haunted eyes, at Mariana’s defensive armor—and knew she was entirely right.
“We start on Tuesday,” Ricardo said firmly.
Luía unslung her backpack, dropped it back onto the marble bench by the door, and unbuttoned her denim jacket, tossing it over a chair.
“Well,” Luía said, rolling up her sleeves as she walked over to the coffee pot to pour herself a fresh cup. “Don't just sit there staring at me like I’m a ghost. Mariana, pass the butter. Bianca, stop playing with your orange juice. We have a house to run.”
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For the first time in over a year, the Morumbi mansion didn't echo with the silence of grief.
It echoed with the sound of life.
