Limitless Pitch-Chapter 87 – A Promise Kept

The sun had already dipped behind the rooftops of Campinas when Thiago finally pushed open the apartment door. The hinges squeaked their familiar protest, a sound as much a part of home as his mother’s voice. He paused in the doorway, letting the warmth of the apartment wash over him. The air smelled of sautéed garlic and onions, with the underlying scent of the lemon-scented cleaner his mother used religiously on their small kitchen. The TV murmured in the background, some telenovela she claimed not to watch but always left playing for company.

Thiago toed off his sneakers, lining them up neatly by the door where they’d sat since he was a boy. The tile floor was cool beneath his socks, worn smooth in the paths they’d all walked countless times. From Clara’s room came the muffled bass of whatever pop song she was obsessed with this week, the rhythm vibrating through the thin walls.

"Oi, Mãe," he called softly, his voice catching slightly in his throat.

She turned from the stove, wooden spoon in hand, her dark hair pulled back in the loose bun she always wore when cooking. A few strands had escaped, curling at her temples from the steam rising from the pots. "You’re late," she said, but the words held no real reproach. Just the quiet observation of a mother who’d spent years waiting up for him after training sessions.

Thiago ran a hand through his hair, still damp from the shower he’d taken at the training facility. "I know. Had a meeting. In the city."

She stirred the pot of feijão, the rich scent of black beans mixing with the garlicky aroma of the farofa toasting in another pan. "With Marina again?"

He slid into one of the rickety kitchen chairs, the legs wobbling unevenly against the tile as they always did. "Yeah. And... some people from Puma."

The wooden spoon stilled in the pot. For a heartbeat, the only sounds were the quiet bubbling of the beans and the tinny laughter from the TV. Then she turned fully, wiping her hands on the faded dish towel that lived perpetually over her shoulder. "Puma?" she repeated, her voice carefully neutral. "The shoe company?"

Thiago nodded, suddenly feeling like he was eight years old again, presenting a school project he’d worked especially hard on. His fingers tapped nervously against the chipped Formica tabletop, tracing the familiar grooves and scratches. "They offered me a deal," he said, his voice quieter than he intended. "Two years. Good money."

Her face remained carefully composed, but he saw the way her fingers tightened slightly around the dish towel. "How much?"

He swallowed, suddenly unsure how to say it. The number still didn’t feel real when he saw it on paper, let alone saying it aloud in this kitchen where they’d counted every real for so many years. "Two hundred thousand," he said. Then, because the currency mattered: "Euros."

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the sizzle of onions in the pan and Clara’s music thumping softly through her door. His mother didn’t gasp or cry or do any of the things people did in movies when they heard life-changing news. She just stood there, her dark eyes moving over his face as if memorizing this moment.

Finally, she crossed the small kitchen and sat beside him. Her hands - rough from years of cleaning other people’s houses and scrubbing their own small apartment - covered his, warm and sure. "I never wanted you to carry this," she said softly, her thumb brushing over his knuckles.

Thiago shook his head, turning his hands to grip hers. "I’m not. It’s not a weight. It’s... it’s for us. For you. For Clara."

She exhaled, a long, slow release of breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside. He could almost see the years of worry leaving her shoulders - the nights she’d stayed up mending his training gear, the mornings she’d woken before dawn to pack his lunch, the times she’d gone without so he and Clara wouldn’t have to.

"You signed already?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"This afternoon," he admitted. "With Marina there. It’s all official."

A sound escaped her then - not quite a laugh, not quite a sob - as she pressed her lips together. "I used to pray," she said, her voice thick with memory, "that you’d never have to know what it felt like to go without. That you’d never lie awake wondering how to make ends meet."

Thiago’s throat tightened. He remembered too clearly the nights she’d sat at this very table, bent over Clara’s school uniform under the dim kitchen light, stitching up tears and letting out seams so it would last another year. The way she’d always served him the larger portion at meals, claiming she wasn’t hungry, even when he knew better.

"You gave me everything," he said, his voice rough. "Even when we had nothing."

She smiled then, just a little, the corners of her eyes crinkling in that way they did when she was trying not to cry. "I gave you a ball filhote," she corrected gently. "Everything else is just your hard work."

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers the way he used to when he was small and needed comfort after a bad dream. Her familiar scent - laundry soap and the faint floral note of her shampoo - surrounded him. "You’re the reason I’m here," he whispered.

They stayed like that, breathing together in the quiet kitchen, until Clara’s door burst open with its usual dramatic flair. She came barreling out, already mid-story about something ridiculous her friend had done at school, her hands flying animatedly as she talked.

Thiago didn’t interrupt. Just smiled, squeezed his mother’s hands once more, and stood to help plate the food.

The table was still too small for three people when they all sat down. The chairs still wobbled if you leaned the wrong way. The walls were still thin enough to hear Senhora Almeida next door yelling at her cats. But as Thiago looked around at his mother’s careful hands serving the rice, at Clara’s bright laughter as she recounted her day, at the way the evening light slanted through their single kitchen window, he realized something.

For the first time, he didn’t see what they didn’t have. He saw what they did - the years of love poured into this small space, the quiet strength that had held them together through every storm.

And it was enough. More than enough.

As they ate, Clara chattering between bites, his mother’s foot nudged his gently under the table. When he looked up, she was smiling at him - really smiling - in a way he hadn’t seen in years. No words passed between them, but none were needed.

The promise had been made long before any contract. And it would last long after.

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