Dear Klaus and Miguel,
Today, as I was coming home from work and watching the sun set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, I thought about how becoming a father later in life was great preparation for a lot of things but, on the other hand, will potentially shorten our time together. Yes, many people are less fortunate than we have been – and I hope we go on being – but I was struck by a longing for the future, you know? Yes, saudade for the future. I already miss the time we will not have, the many things I want to share with you but that, at six years old – your age as I write and record this video letter – you are not yet ready to sit down, listen to and think about. That is why I decided to compose these letters, so that – I hope – you may get to know your father a little, at a time when the shine of your world is still superhero action figures and the wonder of small discoveries. Anyway… So I sit down to share with you a very special story – the story of how you came into our lives: mine and Alfred’s, your PapaiGal and PapaiAlf. Never doubt that it is a story of love, hope and a little magic, a story that perhaps one day you will tell your own children.
Alfred and I always dreamed of being parents. The subject was in our conversations from the time we were dating: at first as a distant possibility, and more and more as a dream and a desire. But, as a couple of two men, we knew we would have some barriers to overcome. Our journey to bring you into the world began with the search for an egg donor and a gestational mother. That search took us to faraway Georgia, in Europe, where we found an agency specialized in surrogacy that helped us find ideal candidates. At the time it was not as accessible and uncomplicated as it is today, especially in Brazil. We lived through an important historical period in which, despite conservative resistance, same-sex marriage was legalized and regulated.
In a bold decision – and, even to us, a slightly crazy one –, we chose to try for a pregnancy with two gestational mothers at the same time, each carrying the genetic material of one of us. We very much wanted to have two children, and nature sometimes has its own plans and rhythms. The probability of not succeeding on the first attempts was high, so we decided to bet big. We sought out a specialized agency that took us on a journey through donor banks, the selection of surrogate candidates and, of course, bureaucracy and payments, but above all anxiety on our part. If before I had always slept like a log, once we decided to become parents I never again slept through the night as I used to. It started right at the planning stage, when I would wake up at night thinking about what we needed to arrange, check, look into, etc., etc., etc.
I remember it as if it were yesterday: our planning, the contacts with the agency and, finally, our trip to Phnom Penh, in Cambodia. It was there, in that faraway city full of history, that the in vitro fertilization and the artificial insemination were carried out. The donor travelled there from Ukraine, and we from Brazil. We did not meet the donor, as that was part of the protocol of some agencies, including ours. Then, with hearts full of hope, Alfred and I travelled to Paris.
A few days later, on a Parisian night, we received the news that would change our lives forever: the insemination of the candidate Chum Sampors had been a success. Unfortunately, the other attempt did not work, but that night our joy was immeasurable. We were about to embark on the most exciting journey of our lives: we were going to become parents.
I want you to know that every step of this journey was guided by the immense love we already felt for you, even before knowing who you would be. You are not just a dream come true; you are living proof that love, in its most varied forms, can create miracles.
You are our little miracles, Klaus and Miguel. And every day with you is a new page in our family story, a story of love, resilience and happiness. I hope that, when you hear this letter and the ones that will follow, you feel the warmth of our love wrapping around you, just like the hug we will always be ready to give, even when we are not there.
With all my love,
Your father.
Glaucio Aranha – January 4, 2024
Translated from the Brazilian Portuguese; reviewed by the author.
Translator’s notes
- Saudade: a Portuguese word for the longing for someone or something absent. The letter speaks of a saudade for the future, a longing for time not yet lived.
- PapaiGal and PapaiAlf: family nicknames, kept in Portuguese. Papai means “Daddy”.
Deixe um comentário