Chapter 44: Volume 1, - 44: Sofia’s Birthday
The alarm on Rayan’s phone went off at six fifteen on Sunday morning. He reached out into the cool grey light of his room, silencing the vibration before it could ring across the hallway.
For once, he was not waking early for training, recovery work, or academy travel. Today was Sunday, 14 May, and Sofia was turning thirty-nine.
Rayan pulled on sweatpants and a dark hoodie, stepping quietly into the corridor. The apartment was still wrapped in early-morning silence. Through the gap in his mother’s bedroom door, he could hear her slow, steady breathing. Sofia was usually up before seven, drinking black coffee at the kitchen table while reviewing her blue notepad. Her endless lists of work shifts, bus timetables, utility bills, and Rayan’s training schedules.
Today, Rayan wanted the kitchen table to be clean before she reached it.
He walked quietly into the living area. The kitchen counter still held the remnants of Saturday night: two dried mugs in the sink, a stray cutlery tray, and a stack of folded laundry sitting on the end of the counter.
Rayan turned the sink tap on low, keeping the water pressure to a soft trickle. He picked up the sponge, squeezed a drop of detergent onto it, and washed the mugs. He stacked them on the drying rack, then moved to the laundry basket. He picked up his training kit from Friday, his grey Sporting Under-16 top and shorts along with a pile of Leonor’s school clothes, stuffing them inside the washing machine.
He lifted the heavy plastic jug of blue laundry liquid, staring at the three separate compartments in the detergent drawer. One had a flower symbol, one had a single Roman numeral, and one had two.
"The middle one is for pre-wash, dummy," a sharp voice whispered from the kitchen entrance.
Rayan jumped, almost dropping the cap. Leonor stood by the doorway in her oversized yellow pyjamas, her hair sticking up in a wild bedhead on one side. She was rubbing her left eye with a knuckle, holding a worn red folder under her arm.
"You’re going to make the machine bubble over," Leonor said, walking over on tiptoe. She pointed at the compartment on the right. "That one is main wash. The flower one is the soft liquid. Mom told me last month."
"I knew that," Rayan lied, pouring the detergent into the right tray.
"You didn’t." Leonor walked over to her schoolbag resting against the sofa, slid her Monday folder into the main compartment, and dropped her history worksheet on top of it with a pointed sigh. "You forgot my worksheet on the desk, too."
Rayan ignored the remark and closed the washing machine door, setting the dial to thirty degrees. "Go back to bed. It’s six thirty."
"I’m awake," she said, sliding onto one of the kitchen chairs. "Is Mom awake?"
"No. Keep your voice down."
Leonor watched him as he retrieved the silver moka pot from the drying rack, unscrewed the base, and filled it with tap water up to the safety valve. He scooped ground dark roast into the filter basket, pressing it down firmly with the back of the spoon.
"You’re not supposed to press the coffee down hard," Leonor observed. "Dad does that and it tastes burnt. Mom always loosens it with a fork so the water goes through."
Rayan paused, looking at the compacted brown disc inside the metal basket. Slowly, he picked up a fork and fluffed the grounds back up, scraping off the excess before setting the pot over a low flame on the stove.
He pulled his dark boots from the hallway, carried them to the balcony, and quietly scraped the dried clay from the studs with a soft-bristled brush. The morning air outside was crisp, smelling faintly of the Tagus River. Below, Olivais was slowly waking. An early bus rumbled along the avenue, its yellow headlights cutting through the pale dawn mist.
When he returned inside, the smell of fresh coffee was filling the kitchen. A quiet creak echoed from the hallway, and Sofia stepped into the room, tying the belt of her grey cotton robe around her waist.
The sink was clean. The washing machine was humming in the corner. A plate of lightly browned toast sat on the table next to three boiled eggs, and the moka pot was softly gurgling on the stove.
"What is all this?" Sofia asked, her voice raspy from sleep.
"Happy birthday, Mom," Rayan said, setting his cleaned boots neatly by the balcony door.
"Happy birthday, Mom!" Leonor chimed in, jumping off her chair to hug her.
Sofia hugged Leonor back, her hands resting gently on her daughter’s back, but her eyes remained on Rayan and the kitchen counters. A small smile broke across her tired face.
"You didn’t need to make a fuss," Sofia said softly. She walked over to the stove and turned off the burner under the moka pot.
"Sit down," Rayan said, pulling out the head chair at the small wooden table. "Breakfast is ready."
Sofia sat, pouring herself a cup of the fresh black coffee. She took a small, cautious sip. When she didn’t reach for the milk, Leonor shot Rayan a triumphant look across the table.
"I made you something first," Leonor announced, unfolding a thick sheet of white paper on the table.
It was a painstaking wax-crayon drawing of the three of them standing outside their apartment building. Above the illustration, in slightly crooked block letters, she had written: HAPPY 39TH BIRTHDAY MOM. THANK YOU FOR BUYING ME THE BIG CRAYON BOX. Glued carefully beneath the drawing was a bookmark made of cardstock, decorated with pressed dried bougainvillea petals.
Sofia’s eyes softened as she traced the edge of the dried petals with her thumb. "Oh, Leo... this is beautiful. Thank you, sweetheart."
She turned her head to look at Rayan.
Rayan reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper, placing it beside her coffee mug. "It’s not much. I got it from the stationery shop near school on Friday."
Sofia untied the string and peeled back the brown paper. Inside lay a heavy, dark-blue hardcover notebook with a smooth leatherette cover and an elastic band. Beside it was a sleek black ballpoint pen. It was a direct replacement for the battered, dog-eared notebook Sofia had carried in her handbag for three years.
"I saw that your old one was almost out of pages," Rayan said quietly. "And... I’m taking care of dinner tonight. I bought pasta and tomatoes yesterday with my allowance."
Sofia held the dark-blue notebook in her hands, running her fingers over the smooth cover. "This was thoughtful, Rayan. Mine was falling apart."
She opened the notebook to the first blank white page, set the pen neatly inside the ribbon marker, and closed it with a soft snap.
At ten in the morning, Sofia’s phone chimed on the counter.
"Happy birthday, Sofia," the text message from Karim read. "I hope the kids are taking care of you today. Leonor told me on Friday she was drawing something for you. Thank you for handling the call with Bento yesterday. I know I made things complicated. Have a quiet day."
Sofia read the message before typing a brief reply: "Thank you, Karim. The kids made breakfast. Take care."
She locked the phone and set it face down on the sideboard, the quiet distance between them intact.
By three in the afternoon, Leonor had gone down to the courtyard to play with the neighbourhood children.
Rayan stood at the kitchen counter, chopping onions and garlic on a plastic board for the evening meal. He kept his fingers curled back the way Sofia had shown him.
Sofia stepped out of her bedroom and sat at the table with her new notebook. She clicked her pen and began setting up her schedule: Monday — 07:30 Rayan leaves for school. 14:00 Clinic shift. 17:30 Leonor pick-up.
"Mom?" Rayan asked, sliding the chopped onions into a small bowl. "About yesterday... with Bento."
Sofia stopped writing and looked up at him patiently. "What about him?"
Rayan swallowed hard. "I should’ve told you sooner."
"Yes," Sofia said. "And next time, you tell me before anything is agreed. In a few weeks, Sporting will make their decision about the squad, but until then, the rules here haven’t changed. Schoolwork gets done, and you report every physical issue to the club." She glanced towards the saucepan on the stove. "Now stir those before they burn."
"Right," Rayan said, reaching for the wooden spoon.
Bento had promised a future in a single conversation. Sofia handled the ordinary work. The transport schedules, the medical forms, the meals, and the constant discipline that gave him an actual chance of reaching one. Rayan was only beginning to understand the difference.
By seven in the evening, the sun had dipped below the horizon. The three of them sat around the wooden kitchen table, eating the simple tomato pasta before Rayan cleared the plates and washed them without being asked.
Before he went to his bedroom to finish his Portuguese literature revision, Rayan walked through the kitchen to check that the balcony door was locked.
On the kitchen counter, right next to the electric kettle, sat the new dark-blue notebook.
Sofia had already transferred her key dates into it. On the very first page, written in clean, deliberate blue ink, was a single entry at the top:
Sunday, 14 May: 39 years. Kitchen clean. Good coffee.
Beneath it, taped neatly to the inside cover, was Leonor’s pressed bougainvillea bookmark.