The fine June drizzle fell over Belo Horizonte like a gray veil when Thiago Ávila left his mansion in Mangabeiras for the fifth night in a row. At forty-two, owner of the largest mining group in Minas Gerais, he had learned to buy almost everything… except the air he lacked since Thaís left. The city slept, and yet he remained awake inside, as if someone had left a light on in an empty room.

He drove his Mercedes along nearly deserted avenues, without music, without haste, without a real destination. He simply repeated the same route to Parque das Mangabeiras, like someone returning to a sacred place to seek an answer that never comes. There, beneath the same tree canopy, the same damp wooden bench awaited him. No one was worried. And that was what he wanted: to cry away from the gaze of the employees who believed him invincible, the board of directors who needed him to be resolute, the acquaintances who repeated platitudes to mask an abyss.

He sat stiffly inside an expensive suit that no longer meant anything. He took a worn photograph from his pocket, Thaís’s face smiling on their wedding day, fifteen years before. In that image, airplanes still existed, as did the “when we have children,” the “when we’re old,” the “when life smiles upon us.” Thiago ran his thumb along the edge of the photo as if he could caress her cheek.

“Why did you leave, my love?” she whispered, and the drizzle mingled with her tears. “What will I do now without you?”

The answer was always silence. That’s what happened with the car accident: how to do it, how to do it, how to do it, how to do it. Barely two weeks. Two weeks that were enough to light up the sky… and for the sky to go out. In one fell swoop, Thiago lost the woman who was his home, and the possibility of becoming a father, that dream for which they had endured treatments, waiting, disappointments, and the stubborn faith of those who truly love.

From then on, he functioned like a ghost. The company kept running, driven by the competent managers, while he wandered through the mansion as if the walls were speaking to him in Thaís’s voice. Friends urged him to stay; family suggested therapy; someone told him that “time heals all wounds.” Thiago didn’t argue. He simply withdrew further. He preferred the pain, because pain was the only thing that kept him connected to her. If he stopped suffering, wouldn’t that be like letting her go?

That night, still holding the photo, he heard small footsteps approaching on the wet ground. Thiago immediately put the photo away and wiped his face, thinking it was a guard asking him to leave. He straightened his shoulders, bracing himself for the discomfort.

But when he looked up, he saw a little girl.

She looked about seven years old. She was barefoot, wearing a dirty, torn pink dress, her brown hair tangled, her cheeks too delicate for her age. In her arms, she clutched a one-armed doll, equally dirty and battered by the world. The girl gazed at it fearlessly, with a curiosity that seemed larger than her body.

And then, in a sweet but tired voice, she asked him:

—You’re hungry too, just like me?

The question pierced him with absurd force. Hunger. Thiago couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hungry. At home, there was plenty of bread, fruit, meat, sweets. Refrigerators were full, and tables were perfectly set. And yet, on that bench, he was dying inside. He looked at the little girl and felt ashamed, as if her elegant crying was an offensive luxury in the eyes of someone who didn’t know if he’d eat that night.

“No… I’m not hungry,” she managed to say. “Are you alone? Where are your parents?”

The girl shrugged, as if that question was a normal part of the weather.

“I don’t have a dad. I only have Bebel,” she said, raising her wrist as if introducing an important person. “I live around here… And you look sad, like I do when I can’t find food.”

Thiago felt something strange in his chest: a different heartbeat, a crack in his heart. That girl had seen his sadness without knowing him. Without a suit, without a company, without a last name, he was just a man crying on a bench.

“What’s your name?” he asked, more gently.

“Maria,” she replied, taking a step toward him. “And you? Do you live in that big house up there?”

Thiago blinked, surprised. The girl knew where he lived.

—Yes. My name is Thiago.

Maria calling for the first time. It was a simple gesture, but for Thiago it happened like a ray of sunshine breaking through heavy clouds.

—Thiago is a nice name. You’re rich, aren’t you? So… why are you crying? Rich people shouldn’t cry.

He swallowed hard. How could he explain to her that money couldn’t buy what she most desired? He opted for the simplest truth.

—Because I lost someone very special.

“Did he die?” she asked, directly, as only children can be.

Thiago nods.

Maria looked down for a second, and when she looked back there was something on her face that wasn’t pity: it was understanding.

—I also lost someone special. My mom died when I was five. After that… I was left all alone.

The girl’s words made Thiago’s six-month ordeal suddenly feel small and selfish. She had been surviving on the streets for two years. Two years of real hunger, cold, and fear.

—And since then you sleep outside? —he asked, almost voiceless.

Maria sat down next to him on the bench, as if she had known him forever.

“Sometimes under a bridge, sometimes here in the park. It depends on where it’s safer. Bebel comes with me. She lost something too,” she said, showing the gap where the doll’s arm should have been.

Thiago looked at that broken doll and felt he was looking at his own life: something precious, incomplete, trying not to give up.

Maria timidly asked another question that made her stomach churn:

—Do you have food at home?

—Yes… a lot —he replied.

—And are you eating it today?

Thiago lowered his gaze.

—Lately… I hardly eat.

Maria frowned, confused.

—Why not? Eating is good. When I find food, I feel happy.

And there, in that childlike logic, Thiago understood the absurdity: he had everything he needed to feed himself and couldn’t, out of sadness; she had nothing and yet she kept trying to smile. Without thinking too much, as if life were pushing him from behind, Thiago blurted out:

— Do you want to come to my house for something to eat?

Maria tensed up.

—My mom always said never to go to a stranger’s house.

“Your mother was wise,” Thiago admitted. “But I’m not going to hurt you. I just… want to help you.”

Maria watched him, as if assessing something she couldn’t put into words. Finally, she looked at Bebel, as if the doll could give her permission.

“All right,” she finally said. “But Bebel is coming with me.”

Thiago was promoted, and the mere agreement felt like the first step towards a door that had been closed for months.

As they walked along the park path toward the mansion, Thiago kept wondering what he was doing. Six months without being able to get up for a few hours… and now he was walking in the early hours of the morning with a street child in tow. But something had changed since that question: “Are you hungry too?” Yes, he was hungry. No problem. Hungry for meaning, for family, to breathe again.

When they arrived at the gate, Maria’s eyes widened in shock.

—It’s enormous…

“It’s huge for one person alone,” Thiago replied, hearing himself say a truth he had never wanted to face.

In the kitchen, he turned up the lights and opened the overflowing refrigerator. The cook, Conceição, prepared food every kia, and he hardly touched anything. Maria stood still, as if witnessing a miracle.

—There’s everything! Bread, milk, fruit…

Thiago was exciting, and that smile hurt her because of how forgotten she was.

He made her a ham and cheese sandwich, poured her milk, and put fruit on a plate. Maria ate with restrained haste, like someone afraid the food would disappear if she blinked. When the girl said, with her mouth full, that it was “the most delicious meal of her life,” Thiago felt a lump in his throat that wasn’t just sadness.

—Maria—he asked when she caught her breath—, do you really have no one?

She shook her head.

—Only my mom. She worked in a house, but she got sick and they fired her. Then she died… and nobody wanted to keep me.

Thiago felt rage. Not against a person, but against an entire city, against a system, against his own blindness. How could a girl live like that while he drowned in a mansion overflowing with food?

Maria looked at him suddenly and said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world:

—You don’t scare me.

“Why?” he asked. “If your mother told you not to trust…”

“Because you were crying,” she replied. “People who cry aren’t bad. Bad people don’t cry.”

The sentence stopped him in his tracks. A seven-year-old girl was teaching him a lesson he hadn’t understood at forty-two.

That night, after a hot bath—María’s first in a long time—Thiago lent her one of Thaís’s clothes, which on the little girl looked like a dress. When María came downstairs, clean, with her hair washed, she seemed like a different person. But what moved him most was seeing her holding Bebel, also washed, as if the doll deserved the same dignity.

—Do I look pretty? —Maria asked, unsure.

“You look beautiful,” he said sincerely, and for a second he imagined what Thaís must have been like seeing that scene.

Thiago led her to the room he and Thaís had prepared for a baby that never arrived: wallpaper with little animals, light wood furniture, a small, untouched bed. María looked at him with respect, as if she were entering a dream.

—Who was this room for?

—For our baby— Thiago replied, and the word “our” trembled in his mouth.

Maria understood without him explaining anything further.

—So… this room was waiting for children—she said—. Like you.

Thiago didn’t answer, because there was no answer. He just stood there, watching as the little girl settled down and hugged Bebel.

—Thank you for the food, for the bath, for the bed —Maria murmured, already sleepy—. You are good…like my mom said good people still exist.

That night, Thiago slept without crying for the first time since Thaís’s death. And although he didn’t know it yet, the real blow didn’t come from the past pain, but from what the world would demand of him when he tried to make that night permanent.

The next morning, the sound of the kitchen woke him. He went downstairs and found Maria sitting at the table, combing Bebel’s hair with her fingers. Conceição was motionless, staring at Thiago with a mixture of confusion and alarm.

—Mr. Thiago… the girl says you let her have breakfast here…

“That’s true,” he replied. “Maria is our guest.”

Maria raised her hand, happy.

“Good morning!” The lady made pancakes. I had never eaten pancakes before.

Thiago sat down and, caught up in that simple joy, ate. He rediscovered the taste of food as if he had forgotten it.

Then he made a decision that made his stomach tremble.

—Maria —he said carefully—, do you want to go back to the street… or do you want to stay here?

The girl suddenly became serious. It wasn’t a game question.

—Can I really? And Bebel too?

—Yes —said Thiago—. They can stay.

Maria, as if she needed to understand the rules of the world, asked what any child in her place would ask:

—But… I don’t have any money.

Thiago almost laughed and almost cried.

“You can’t pay with money,” he replied. “You can pay by filling this house with laughter. You can record me and pay me to show I’m not alone. You can pay by helping me not to sink.”

Maria smiled, relieved.

—That I do know how to do.

The following moments were strange and beautiful. The mansion stopped sounding like a mausoleum. Maria ran through the halls, asked questions about the paintings, sang in the bathroom, and marveled at a closet full of clean towels. Thiago bought her clothes, shoes, and a coat. He watched her choose colors with enthusiasm and felt that life was giving her back little things he had left behind.

But it wasn’t all easy.

One afternoon, in a store, a woman recognized Thiago. She looked at him, then at Maria, and frowned. Minutes later, a security guard appeared. Then, a patrol car. Someone had filed a report: “A millionaire is seeing a street child.” Thiago felt as if the world had suddenly slammed the door in his face. Maria clung tightly to his hand.

“Are you going to take me?” she whispered, with an ancient fear in her eyes.

Thiago bends down until he is at her level.

“Nobody’s going to take you far from me,” he promised, and he realized that this promise made him, for the first time in months, someone who was willing to fight for something.

At the police station and later with social services, Thiago had to explain, show his house, talk about his intentions, and undergo psychological evaluations. There were suspicious looks, tough questions, and cold bureaucracy. His company’s board told him he was “damaging the company’s image.” An executive suggested it was best to “resolve it discreetly.” Thiago felt the old temptation to shut himself away, to run away, to go back to the park bench.

Then one night, Maria found him sitting in the kitchen with Thaís’s photo in his hand, his face tense.

“Are you going to cry again?” she asked calmly.

Thiago couldn’t lie.

“I’m afraid this will all fall apart,” he confessed. “That they’ll take it away from me. That I’ll be a gypsy and I won’t be able to.”

Maria climbed onto a chair and, with the seriousness of someone who has learned too much about life, said to him:

—My mom used to say that when you love someone, you have to nurture that love with actions, not sadness. If you love me, fight for me. I’ve already fought alone for a long time.

That phrase sustained him. It wasn’t a speech. It was a simple truth, like her question in the park. Thiago saved the photo, took a breath, and the next day, called his lawyer. He started the adoption process the right way: with paperwork, visits, interviews, reports. Every step was a test. And every night, when María fell asleep cuddling Bebel, Thiago told himself he wouldn’t let her down.

When the psychologist asked Maria if she wanted Thiago to be her father, she answered without hesitation:

—He’s already my dad. All that’s left is for the paperwork to say so.

And when asked why she thought he would be a good father, Maria shrugged:

—Because he was sad like me. And when we’re together, neither of us is alone. And because he takes care of me… and Bebel.

On the day of the hearing, Maria wore a blue dress that Thiago had bought with an excitement he was ashamed to admit. She entered the courthouse clutching Bebel as if it were her lucky charm. Thiago, his heart pounding in his chest, listened to the words that changed his life:

From that moment on, Maria was officially his daughter.

She ran to hug him with a strength that seemed impossible in such a small body.

—Now we’re a real family, Dad.

Thiago closed his eyes for a moment, and for the first time since the accident, he silently said something that was not a plea to heaven, but a thank you: “Thais… muiranos”.

But the change didn’t stop there. Maria, with the same naturalness with which she had entered his life, shared an idea that took root in Thiago’s mind like a seed:

—Dad… or many children on the street like I was. You have a very big house. Why don’t you help more?

Thiago began to investigate. He visited shelters, spoke with social workers, saw the insufficient number of beds, the lack of resources, the lifeless eyes of children who had learned not to beg. And he felt the same shame as the bank: him crying with plenty of food, while others went to sleep without dinner.

With his fortune—for the first time—he did something he truly valued. He opened a shelter. Then another. Until he inaugurated a place they called the Thaís and María Institute, because he understood that his wife’s love hadn’t died: it had been transformed. The institute could take in twenty orphaned or abandoned children, providing them with food, schooling, psychological support, security, and, above all, a sense of belonging.

Maria became the first to welcome them. She had a way of looking at the arriving children that disarmed them. To a little girl who was crying, she offered her hand. To a boy clutching a broken toy, she showed him Bebel and said:

—Here, nobody focuses on what’s missing. We focus on what we still have. And here, we have love.

A year after that June night, the Mangabeiras mansion was no longer silent. There were footsteps in the hallways, laughter in the garden, glasses of juice on the table, drawings stuck to the refrigerator. Thiago delegated more to the company, stopped living for the business, and started living for people.

One afternoon, while watching the children play, Maria sat down next to them.

—Dad… do you think Aunt Thaís would be happy seeing this?

Thiago looked at the garden full of life and felt that new sadness that no longer destroyed him: a warm saudade, full of gratitude.

“Yes,” he replied. “She always dreamed of a house full of children. Not as we imagined it… but perhaps more beautiful.”

—And are you still hungry? —asked Maria, remembering the first question.

Thiago noticeably had wet eyes.

“Sometimes I get hungry from missing her,” he admitted. “But now… I’m fed. Fed on family. On purpose. On love.”

Maria hugged Bebel and nodded, satisfied.

—Then we can continue feeding people— he said, as if he were talking about bread. —Because when you share, there’s enough for more.

That night, at dinner, around a long table with children of different ages, Thiago raised his glass of orange juice.

—I want to make a toast —he said— to the family that was born one night when a brave little girl asked me if I was hungry too.

“That was me!” Maria shouted proudly, and several children laughed.

One of the children asked:

—And how hungry were you, Dad Thiago?

Thiago looked at Maria, and then at all the faces that the world had left aside.

“A hunger for love,” he replied. “A hunger for meaning. And learn that love is the only thing that, when shared, multiplies.”

Later, when the house was quiet and everyone was asleep, Thiago took Thaís’s photo. He no longer used it to cry, but to speak to her with a newfound peace.

“Thank you, love,” she whispered. “Thank you for teaching me to love so much that, even after losing you, I still had more than enough love to give.”

Before turning off the lights, he went to Maria’s room. He found her asleep, cuddled up with Bebel, her breathing calm. Thiago stood for a moment, gazing at the scene that, years ago, would have been his dream of Thaís and a baby of his own. It wasn’t the story he had planned. But it was a real story, a story that saved him.

As she left, she passed the window overlooking the park. Somewhere, under a tree, was the bench where she had cried. And she thought about how strange fate is: sometimes, no speech or grand gesture is needed. Sometimes a simple question, asked by a hungry child, is enough to change an entire life.

“Are you hungry too, like me?”

Thiago knew, with a certainty that filled his heart, that this question hadn’t just nourished him. It had nourished many. And as long as there was someone hungry—for bread or for love—his family would continue to grow as far as love allowed, because love, as he had finally learned, has no limits.