8.

Eight. A small number, doesn’t even make it to ten.

Eight.

Oi-to.

In Portuguese, it’s a short word with two syllables.

But right now, it seems enormous to me.

Eight.

Not days, weeks or months.

Eight years.

Eight years ago, I gave birth to and held for the first time the kindest little boy I had ever met. The boy who would rather give his pocket money to someone begging in the street than buy sweets. The boy who cries when he sees injustice and asks me quietly, ‘Mum, why is the world like this?’

Vico, I hope that the world doesn’t harden you, but that you learn to protect your heart. I hope you never abandon your dreams and hopes, but learn to adjust your sails according to the wind. May you continue to be who you’ve always been: sweet, intelligent and kind. The best chess player in our house, my partner in reading huge books in record time and a great lover of peach iced tea.

I love you forever.

Happy birthday!