A MILLIONAIRE WITH NO FERTILITY DENIES PATERNITY UNTIL HE GOES TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM AND SEES THE TRUTH…
He swore it was impossible. Even so, when he saw the newborn’s bracelet with his last name, billionaire Artur Mendonça felt the ground disappear beneath him.
From the top of the most expensive building in Curitiba, Artur commanded construction projects, figures, and people like someone moving pieces on a chessboard. There was only one subject he wouldn’t touch: the old report he kept in a drawer, stating that his count was “almost zero.” In his mind, this became a sentence: he would never be a father.
His wife, Helena Siqueira, was the only one who could disarm him. Five years of marriage, laughter in the kitchen, promises on the pillow. Until the night she appeared with a trembling test between her fingers.
“Honey… I’m pregnant.”

Artur didn’t smile. His blood ran cold, and the word “impossible” screamed louder than love. “Whose?” escaped him, cruelly, before he could even think.
Helena paled. “What do you mean, whose? It’s ours.”
He pulled out the report like someone pulling out a gun. “I can’t. I… I can’t.” And, to avoid facing his own shame, he aimed at her. He accused, broke photos, destroyed the room. In the end, he pointed to the door. “Go away.”
Helena left with a suitcase and a silence that hurt more than any scream. She went to live in a room in Vila Aurora, working in a pharmacy, hiding her tears so as not to scare the baby. When the lawyer appeared with divorce papers, she returned them. “Tell Artur he’ll regret it.”
Camila, his sister, didn’t return them. She investigated the past, found the retired doctor, and came back with the truth in hand. “Artur, your diagnosis was severe oligospermia. Difficult, not impossible. You listened to fear, not the doctor.”
He tried to deny it, but the phone rang, this time with real urgency: “Helena went into labor at São Gabriel Hospital.”
In the car, Artur felt his entire empire crumble. He arrived in the white corridor, hearing the cries of other babies and imagining his son being born without him. He stopped in front of the delivery room, and guilt opened the door before his hand.

Helena was sweaty, strong, wounded, yet still alive. She looked at him as if she didn’t believe in rescue. “Why did you come?”
“Because I was wrong.” His voice came out small. “And because I don’t want to lose anything else.”
The doctor placed the baby in Artur’s arms. The newborn squirmed and let out a soft cry. And then Artur saw: on her right eyebrow, a half-moon shaped mark, just like his, just like in childhood photos. The logic he idolized crumbled.
He fell to his knees. “Forgive me, Helena. I abandoned you when you needed me most.”

Helena took a deep breath, tired of suffering, but not of loving. “His name is Miguel.”
Artur kissed his son’s forehead, then her hand, as if asking for another chance without demanding anything. That same morning, he signed the birth certificate, called the press to cancel meetings, and sat in a hard chair. With each of Miguel’s cries, Artur repeated: “I am finally here. I am here.”
Months later, it wasn’t money that rebuilt the house; it was presence: diaper changes, appointments attended, silence heard. And, little by little, Helena began to believe again in the man she chose to grow up with.
“If you believe that no pain is greater than God’s promise, comment: I BELIEVE! And also say: from which city are you watching us?”