Tiago and Mario get in a fight as soon as we walk in the door from church. A stupid one over who left the phone off the hook so it didn’t charge.

“Tiago,” I say, getting between him and Mario before they come to blows, “let’s take King for a walk.”

He looks like he wants to bust his brother’s head into the wall, but he won’t deny me. I have some kind of super power over him. He says something cutting to his brother, who says something back, and then I manage to get him out the door with the dog.

I struggle with the leash. The dog is bigger than I am, and I’m half trotting while I pull on the collar, trying to slow him down. “It really bothers me the way you fight with your family,” I say.

He shrugs and takes the leash from me. He’s already calmer, his body more relaxed. “We’re not really fighting. Just disagreeing. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. It’s not normal.”

“It is here.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I don’t live here, then.”

He doesn’t respond to my snide statement. We get King all the way around the block before he says, “I haven’t fought with my mom, at least.”

“That’s awesome,” I say. “That means you can control it. So stop fighting with everyone.”

“Sometimes you have to fight. People don’t listen otherwise.”

“I know there’s a time and a place for it. I get angry too. But you’re getting angry over stupid stuff.”

“It’s kind of important to charge the phone!”

I deadpan and give him my best “are you serious?” expression. Tiago relents.

“It seemed important at the time.”

I laugh at his acquiescence. “I hate when people fight.”

“I’m a fighter. I was raised that way. It’s how it is here. If you’re a man, you fight.”

I chew on my lip as I internalize that cultural difference. It might not be something he can yank from his psyche.

“But I don’t like to fight with you,” he adds.

“Me neither. I remember we used to fight a lot.”

“Not now.”

Only because we’re not as close as we used to be.

He takes my hand as we walk. I don’t object. Sometimes everything about Tiago feels so comfortable, so familiar, that I think we’ve already been married for a decade. This is one of those moments.

We reach his house, and he turns me slightly and meets my eyes. He holds my gaze as if asking permission as he tips my chin up. I don’t deny him. I don’t pull away.

I close my eyes as he gets closer, and I assume he takes that to mean he has my permission because he kisses me.

It’s lovely. His lips are soft and warm, plying mine with gentle pressure. Something light flutters in my chest. He doesn’t pull me against his body, and the kiss is one of the most tender I’ve ever received. When he pulls back, I open my eyes and see a depth of emotion in his.

“I love you,” he whispers.

My heart stirs, but I don’t know what I feel. So I won’t say anything.

He takes my hand and leads me back into the house.

His dad is in the kitchen arguing with Mario. He turns on Tiago when Tiago walks in and immediately starts berating him. I don’t know what they’re saying, but Tiago jumps right in. All the calm he acquired on our walk vanishes as they yell at each other.

Martha gets in between them, putting her hands on her son’s shoulders and pushing him back.

“Vamos comer,” she says, guiding Tiago to the dinner table. “Venha.”

She collects her other son next, bringing him to the table and then going down the hall to get Rafael. She doesn’t say anything to her husband. I watch as an outsider observing while the maid sets the table.

She has no input to what her husband does. She has no say. She can act on her sons, but her husband is the one with the voice.

It is the way things are.

I sit down between her and Tiago and spoon the customary beans and rice on my plate before adding salad and chicken and farofa. We bless the food, and I think we’re past the negative discussions until Tiago’s dad turns to him and starts up the argument again. I can’t catch a word, it’s too fast, but I press my hand against Tiago’s thigh, willing him not to engage.

I see him trying not to. He keeps his eyes on his plate, chewing, listening to his dad, but his eyes get narrower and narrower. He swallows, his jaw tightening.

Stay calm, I think, holding onto his leg and watching him from the peripheral.

Martha interjects, gently, saying something to her husband, but he brushes her off with a wave of his hand and raises his voice, and it sounds like he’s demanding an answer.

Tiago answers. His voice is low, curt, the response to the point. But then his dad stands up, and Tiago stands up, their chairs screeching across the tile as they shove them back. My heart pounds in my throat, and I want to run away and hide.

“Sit down!” his father roars, Portuguese words that I understand loud and clear.

“Vou não!” Tiago yells back.

Before his dad can say another word, Tiago moves away from the table and leaves the room. A door slams down the hall.

For a second I think his dad will follow him, and I don’t know what I’ll do if they continue to fight. I’m terrified of them getting physically aggressive with each other. But then his dad must decide he won the argument, because he sits down and resumes eating like nothing happened.

I suppose we are to do the same. I spoon beans over my rice, but I’m shaking so bad I’m afraid I’ll be sick.

What chance does Tiago have of learning to manage his anger if this was the behavior that was modeled?

Dinner is quiet without him. I wait for him to come back, but he doesn’t. The maid clears the table and his brothers leave the kitchen. I hear a guitar playing deeper in the house.

His dad gets out a set of dominoes and lays it out over the table.

“Vai lá buscar Tiago,” he tells Martha.

“Vai lá tu,” she replies.

Neither of them moves. Neither of them intends to get Tiago. I stand. “Vou,” I say.

Martha turns anxious eyes on me. “Não, não, Lucia, eu vou,” she says, and she stands up also.

She doesn’t want me to see that side of him. I sit down and take my domino pieces and listen to her talk to him in the hall.

Playing his guitar hasn’t calmed him down. His voice is loud, the pitch of his tenor voice higher than usual as he yells at his mom. She returns a minute later, alone and with her lips pursed. She offers a curt smile as she sits across from me.

“Vamos jogar.”

He won’t come, not even for me. He’s left me here. We begin to play, but my head is preoccupied. I don’t want to play games with Tiago’s family.

We play for an hour before I decide I’d rather sit alone in my room and read a book than sit here with his mom and dad and feel isolated. I thank them for the game and leave for my room.

I pause outside the door when I realize the guitar music is coming from within. Great, Tiago took sanctuary in the same place I intended to. I open the door and the guitar stops. I don’t look at him as I move around him to get my book from the suitcase by the bed.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks.

I shrug. “Well, you aren’t talking to me,” I say.

“You aren’t talking to me!” he retorts.

I spin to him. “You’re the one who got up and left the table and wouldn’t come back even when your mom asked you to! You just left me there! What do you want me to do, come and beg you to come back?”

His dark eyes study me for a moment, and then he looks back at his guitar and begins strumming the chords again.

Ignoring me.

Fire shoots through my chest, anger, hurt, indignation.

I almost laugh. This is how he fights me. With coldness and silence.

I take my book and leave the room, and I want to go back to Grandpa’s house so I won’t face Tiago again today.

I feel it deep in my soul. I can’t beat this.