“I wish I knew more. My dad was so focused on immersing himself in North American culture that we really didn’t get a lot of his heritage.” A small frown touches Winter’s face. “That’s a shame. Maybe we can go one day.” “Where?” “To Brazil. Teach Vivi about her grandpa.” No, Winter may not say the words, but she expresses her love in different ways. She embodies it so effortlessly. When I finally pack up to head to the airport that afternoon, I fold her in my arms, kiss her hard, and whisper against her ear, “Te vivo, Winter Hamilton.”
I am not crying I am not crying
