My Boys I thought I'd repeat a text already published, enjoying Father's Day (since I'm not one). I remembered that I had made the text inspired by some Cris Ribeiro pearl (it has so much spectacular that the hard thing is not to be inspired by what she writes). For those who have read, pass. Who haven't you read... Well, read it, maybe it's worth it... My boys were not yet my boys when I met them; one was already 8 and the other was 5. And I, just me, an autistic man who hasn't been a good uncle, not a good cousin, not a good brother, not a good older brother-in-law, got the job of being a good stepfather. They didn't like me right away; they thought I was coming to take their father's place. It was not true; the father had already abandoned this post, and what I was doing was trying to fill an already vacant space, but how to demonstrate this to two children? Maybe that's why I was so hard, so intransigent, so critical and austere. Perhaps for this reason, they, who had never found limit and authority, have clinged to me as a safe port - something I was not, fickle that I was, ghastly and annoying and grumpy and demanding. But... Time went by. And the love I once had for their mother was becoming a love for three, a love for family that wasn't mine. I covered myself as a father and demanded everything they could be like children. And how many times did one of them not show me something amazing, and I didn't let them because I didn't have time? How many times did I stop them from talking about the new series, the new game, the new book, because there was "important work" to be done? Today, I look inside myself, with the eyes of the past, and I find moments when I could have been more with them, where I should have sent those bosses who didn't even know my name, or that I had children and family and should have been an example. I look back with the perception that I should have been more present, more friend, more loving. More dad. But today, one of them likes rock, he's a musician, he's working with IT. All this is the stepfather's example. The other, younger, loves to draw and read, and twists to my Flamengo instead of Dad's Corinthians. At what point was I so important in their lives? At what point was I an example of something? Today I look back with pride, with the certainty that I have passed good values and good thoughts. I look back and realize that I've made a lot of mistakes, and that they haven't had the best of their lives, and that much is my fault, even though I know that deep down, I've fallen into their lives and done the best I could. Life doesn't give you any new chances, it doesn't allow you to test or reload. I did what I thought was right, and if today I think I could have done better, it's because, like them, I grew up. And they grew up! And today I can be the friend, the stepfather, the father, because they've evolved and learned about my limitations. They raised me more than I raised them. They understood me because they obviously became much better people than me. Whoa! But don't I also have some share of merit in this?... I still miss the time when I could adjust something in their education. I still don't realize that today, I can still do that. I am still sad to realize that one day I was young like them, and I had my idols, even though today I already see them as ordinary people. I'm still a little proud to get here alive, having spent days of difficulty. I still look back and I don't know if I was a good father, if I should have been, if I took the place of others or if I just improvised, because life doesn't allow rehearsal. I'll still be proud of what I've been to them. I'll still be proud of what I've been to myself. I'll still be proud of what I am anyway. And then, yes, life will be worth it. Because there's something I've learned trying to be a father: living is not something we do for ourselves.