The One You Shouldn’t Have Crossed”

57 days until the incident

“Is the wine good?” I asked, looking at Layla from behind my menu.

“This isn’t wine, it’s grape juice,” she said, smiling.

“But wine is grape juice too.”

We laughed.

We were at an open-air restaurant. It was around eleven in the morning, and the sun was blazing overhead, covering the entire city like a storm of fire. Thank God we were sitting in a cool corner by the waterfront, under the shade of a large tropical tree, with a view of the river and the statue of Yemanjá on the island near the center.

“Isn’t it time to pick up the girls?” she asked.

“It’s only noon. I asked a friend to get them, with a code.”

“That’s interesting.”

A jet ski sped across the river, followed by a boat.

“This place reminds me a lot of my homeland.”

“Israel?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I’m not entirely sure. My father had dreamed of visiting Brazil since he was a child. So after he got married and had us, he came here.”

“Are you ready to order?” a polite waiter asked.

Layla was wearing a new head covering, this time white with floral details. It gave her a very beautiful aura.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll have the vegan potato and mushroom roast, and a mango juice with soy milk.”

“You’re very interesting, Nilton. Since when are you vegetarian?” Layla asked.

“I was born into a vegetarian family. But they were flexible. My father was strictly vegetarian, and my mother was ovo-lacto vegetarian. So I ended up as ovo-vegetarian.”

“That’s nice. I’d like to try your cooking someday.”

“You can come over anytime.”

“And for you, madam?” the waiter asked.

“Oh, yes. I’ll have the cod, please. And a beer.”

“Dirty Jew!”

A middle-aged man stopped in front of our table, staring at Layla with anger and arrogance.

“Excuse me, do you have a problem?” Layla asked.

“You kill children. You’re terrorists, worse than animals. Hitler was right to exterminate you.”

The man spat on the ground in contempt.

As I moved to stand, the waiter stepped in. He grabbed the man by the collar and threw him out into the street. The man stumbled and fell.

“Don’t ever come back here, or I’ll call the police,” the waiter said.

“I—I wasn’t going to eat here anyway! You harbor criminals—child killers!”

He got up and walked away, shouting threats.

This time, not only the waiter came, but also the manager—a tall man with straight hair and beard, with side curls that marked him as a traditional Jew.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” he said. “Your meal today is on the house.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Layla said, her tension fading into relief.

Just then, the girls arrived with their backpacks and school uniforms, along with Felipe, a friend from college.

“Hi girls, did your uncle get the code right?” I asked.

“Yes, he said it exactly,” Natália replied.

“I’m hungry, dad,” Paula said.

“The food is coming. But what is that on your neck?”

There were purple marks on her neck. I took her hands—her arms were bruised too.

“Nat, come here.”

I looked at Natália. She also had marks on her face, hands, and stomach.

“What happened? Who did this to you? Felipe?”

“I noticed too. They didn’t want to talk. But the school principal said they were involved in a fight. They were waiting in the office.”

“Alright. We’ll talk at home. Thanks, Felipe. How is your fiancée?”

“She’s responding well to the medication. We’re praying.”

“What happened to his fiancée?” Layla asked.

“Eliana has leukemia. She’s hospitalized. She recently received a bone marrow transplant. She seems to be recovering well.”

“Yes, we’re still praying for her,” Felipe said. “Well, I have to go. Good seeing you, Nilton. Girls…”

He left.

When we got home, the girls sat on the couch, looking sad. Layla went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat, even though we had just come from a restaurant.

“Aren’t you working today?” she asked.

“No, I don’t have classes today.”

I sat next to the girls.

“So… what happened at school?”

“It wasn’t her fault, it was mine,” Natália said.

“Alright, just tell me what happened.”

“The teacher gave a lesson about the history of the Jews, and one of the classmates said that Jews had actually stolen Palestine from the Palestinians. Then Paula stood up and said that the real thieves were the Palestinians, that the Jews were the rightful owners of the land, and that Palestine had never existed. Then during recess, a group came to ‘teach her a lesson,’ and I tried to defend her. They beat us, called us terrorists and children of murderers. Then the teacher showed up and took us to detention.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by the sound of a pan falling in the kitchen.

“My fault, I’ll fix it,” Layla said from the kitchen.

“Are we going to be punished?” Natália asked.

“I think you’ve been punished enough today. I’ll call the principal and demand an explanation. You actually deserve a reward for what you did.”

Layla brought juice and toast to the living room, and the girls began to eat.

“So… what are you going to do?” she asked.

53 days until the incident

“This is the fourth time my girls have been attacked at school and you’ve done nothing. What do I have to do for you to take action?” I said angrily on the phone.

“Sir, calm down. This is a free school—everyone is entitled to their own opinion,” the voice replied.

“But it’s not a safe place for my daughters. I don’t see any option but to take them out.”

“Fine, take them—but teach them not to defend terrorist countries.”

I hung up immediately. Staying on the phone with people like that is bad for your brain.

I was at home, with the girls sitting on the couch, covered in bruises.

“Girls,” I said, “starting tomorrow, you don’t have to go to school anymore.”

They ran and hugged me. I stroked their heads as I put the phone down.

“This is no longer a safe country for us.”

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