After dinner, Lívia stepped onto the lodge's wide veranda to call her mother. The conversation started normally—updates about São Paulo, family news, questions about Lívia's trip.
"How are you feeling, filha?" Dona Marta asked. "Is the mountain air doing you good?"
"It's beautiful here," Lívia said, watching Camila through the window, sorting trail maps. "I'm... learning things."
"About architecture?"
"About me." Lívia took a breath. "Mãe, remember what we talked about before I left? About liking women?"
Silence. "Have you met someone?"
Lívia's heart raced. "I've met someone. Her name is Camila."
"How old is she?"
"Forty-one."
The sharp intake of breath was audible even through the phone. "Lívia, this is exactly what I was worried about. You're vulnerable, and someone older is taking advantage of that—"
"She's not," Lívia interrupted, voice tight. "She's kind and respectful and—"
"And what happens when you realize this is just confusion? When you want a family, children? Can this woman give you that?"
"I don't know," Lívia admitted, "but I know how I feel when I'm with her. Seen."
"Seen?" Her mother's voice softened slightly. "Oh, filha. You don't need someone to see you. You need to see yourself."
"I'm trying," Lívia said quietly. "That's why I'm here."
When she returned to the room, Camila looked up from her maps. "Everything okay?"
"My mother," Lívia said simply. "She thinks you're taking advantage of my confusion."
Camila's expression tightened. "Are you confused?"
"Not about you."
Camila studied her face—searching signs of hesitation, doubt, or childishness. She found none, only a steady conviction.