Chapter 2 I solve everything

The sound of an old bus engine swallowed the silence of the street as Clara turned the corner. She walked quickly, clutching her purse to her chest, as if it were enough to protect the coins she carried and their value, which seemed to dwindle with every step.

It was hot, but she wore a light coat, trying to hide her flour-stained clothes. Sugar still clung to her wrist, a reminder of the morning's baking. She didn't even have time to wipe it thoroughly before leaving.

"You need a loan. A break. Anything."

Her own voice echoed, repeating what Dona Amélia would say if she were still alive. But at the same time, another part of her screamed louder: "Don't take handouts. Don't take crumbs. You can do it yourself."

She stopped in front of the first bank and took a deep breath. The gold sign glittered like a promise. She stepped inside, ignoring the frigid air conditioning that made her shiver. In line, Clara reviewed the paperwork: statements, receipts, invoices. Everything was organized, everything showed that the bakery was still selling, that it still had loyal customers. She just needed time.

When she finally sat down opposite the manager, a bored-looking man in a gray suit felt a knot in his stomach.

"Ms. Clara Martins?" He adjusted his glasses, flipping through the pages like someone flipping through an old magazine. "Uh... Martins Bakery, right? A sole proprietorship... I see the monthly income doesn't cover the accumulated debts."

Clara sat up straighter in her chair, trying to contain her anxiety.

"But I have a flow of customers. If I can modernize the display, run a promotion, pay suppliers in advance, I can double sales during the June holidays. I just need a deadline, a break."

The man cleared his throat and typed something into the computer. The sound of the keys was like a hammer pounding every negativity into her soul. "Ms. Clara, unfortunately, your credit history is very poor. There's no collateral other than the commercial space itself, which, from what I see, belongs to the Albuquerque construction company." He looked up, impassive. "That really limits your options."

He pressed his lips together, trying to contain his anger. Of course, the Albuquerque name would be there, like a shadow behind every closed door.

"Can't you make an exception?" he insisted, almost in a whisper. "I work hard, I pay all my vendors. If I lose the store, I can't even pay what I owe."

"I understand your situation," she said automatically. "But we can't help you right now." Clara left the bank on shaky legs. The sun was already beginning to set, turning the avenue orange. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck, but the chill came from within.

She took a deep breath, ignored the tightness in her chest, and headed to the second branch, across the street. More lines, more paperwork, more pitying looks. Another rejection. As she left, her phone vibrated. A voicemail. It was Luísa.

"Friend, call me as soon as you hear this! I'm worried. I heard you got a notification." Come tonight, let's talk, okay?" I'll help you with whatever you need!

Clara clutched the phone in her hand. Luísa had been her friend since high school, one of those who knew all her secrets, even the ones she wanted to bury. The invitation was sincere: Luísa had always been generous. Rich, married to a lawyer who always offered "interest-free loans." But Clara knew the bitter taste of every favor.

She put the phone in her pocket, without answering. She wasn't going to humiliate herself. She wasn't going to owe favors she couldn't repay.

She stopped at a third bank before returning to the bus stop. The manager, friendlier than the others, even offered her a coffee. He smiled as he declined the loan, as casually as he would comment on the weather forecast. When she finally sat down on the wooden bench at the bus stop, Clara felt a tingling in her legs. The plastic bags with groceries for the next day weighed on her lap. She had to keep baking, selling, smiling. The world She wasn't going to stop. Because she was exhausted.

Her phone vibrated again. Another message, this time from Ana, the distant cousin who had found out about the debt.

"Cousin, come live with me for a while, close this bakery! It's just an old place, you're still young, you can get a job at any bakery. You don't have to kill yourself over this!"

Clara felt her blood boil. How could she explain to them that it wasn't just an old place? It was the only thing that still connected her to her grandmother, her father, to her childhood that still made sense.

She looked up at the sky, where the sun was beginning to disappear behind the tall buildings that swallowed the city.

"If I don't fight for this, I'll have nothing left."

She ran her hand over her face, trying to hold back her tears. She opened her purse and took out a yellowed notepad where she'd written down her orders. Tomorrow she'd have two birthday cakes, four dozen brigadeiros, and a batch of gingerbread for the neighborhood school. Work. Survival.

Suddenly, she remembered something she hated to remember. One night, years ago, Enzo Albuquerque was leaning against the bakery door, still in his suit, a smile playing on the corner of his lips.

"You don't have to work so hard, Clarita. Come with me. I'll fix everything."

She said no. Pride, shame. Maybe fear. And now, years later, there he was, owner of the building, owner of the street, owner of a piece of her destiny.

She felt a tightness in her chest. Would she have to swallow everything she'd swallowed to knock on his door? No. She couldn't. Not yet.

The bus arrived, blowing black smoke in her face. She boarded slowly, paid with the coins she'd counted, and sat near the window.

As the bus pulled away, Clara saw her reflection in the dirty glass: her hair pulled back in a makeshift bun, dark circles under her eyes, her forehead furrowed with worry. But deep in her eyes, a spark. Small, but alive. "No matter how many banks tell me no, I'll find a way. Even if I have to sell brigadeiros in front of the Enzo Albuquerque building."

And, for the first time that day, a small, almost imperceptible smile spread across her lips. She still had the strength to fight. And as long as there was strength, there would be hope.