A Stranger's Offer

It was a Thursday morning when the call came. The old landline phone in the kitchen hadn't rung in days—maybe weeks. It sat between the flour jar and a chipped ceramic rooster, always dusty, always waiting. When it did ring, it echoed through the small house like a church bell.Maria Dolores dried her hands on her apron and picked up the receiver."Alô?"A pause. Then, a voice. Male. Foreign. Portuguese, yes, but heavy with an accent she didn't recognize."Good morning. I'm looking for Mrs. Maria Dolores dos Santos.""Speaking.""My name is Adel Khamis. I represent the Al Nassr Football Club. We are based in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia."She blinked. "Excuse me...? From where?""Saudi Arabia. We are a professional football organization. One of the most respected in the region. We have been monitoring young talent in Europe. And we have heard... of your son."She looked instinctively toward the backyard. Cristiano was chasing a plastic bottle, pretending it was a ball, sliding across the dirt in oversized boots."My son is seven.""Yes, madam. That is why we are interested. We are building something... different. A youth program. International. Focused on development and discipline. Faith-based. Your son's name came to us through a regional scout in Lisbon. We have seen a short video."Maria Dolores felt her throat tighten. She hadn't allowed anyone to film him—had she? Maybe Hugo... or someone from school?"I don't know what to say," she managed."You don't have to say anything now. We would like to send a representative. To speak with you and your husband. To show you everything. We can provide transportation. Education. A monthly allowance. Full coverage. He will be safe. And most importantly... respected."The words came smooth, like honey. Too smooth.She ended the call with polite thanks, heart pounding. When José Dinis came home that evening, she told him everything.He sat in silence, staring at his calloused hands.Then he looked at her."Do you think this is from God?""I don't know," she whispered. "But I think it's a door."From the bedroom, they heard Cristiano shouting a goal celebration."RONALDOOOO!"The boy's voice echoed into the hallway like a prophecy.That night, after the children had gone to bed and the dishes were washed, Maria Dolores and José Dinis sat at the kitchen table. A single candle flickered between them, casting shadows on their tired faces.The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of old wood and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Outside, the wind carried the faint sound of barking dogs and distant radio static from a neighbor's window.José took a long sip of his coffee, now cold. "Saudi Arabia," he muttered, as if repeating it might make it sound less absurd. "It might as well be the moon."Maria Dolores folded and unfolded the dish towel in her lap. "He sounded serious. Polite. Professional. He knew Cristiano's name. Knew where we lived."José looked up. "That's what worries me."She nodded, slowly. "I know."For a while, they didn't speak. Their thoughts were louder than any words. Finally, Maria broke the silence."Do you think... do you think this could be God's way? An open door, like we prayed for?"José's brow furrowed. "God opens doors. But not every open door is from Him."She looked at him, unsure."I've worked on roofs for twenty years," he said. "You know what I've seen? Men chasing gold that was really dust. Dreams that came with fine print. Promises that turned to chains."He rubbed his temples."But then I look at Cris... and I know he's different. You see it too. It's not just talent. It's something deeper."Maria's eyes glistened. "He was born with it."José exhaled slowly. "If we say no, will we be keeping him safe... or holding him back?""And if we say yes," she whispered, "will we be giving him a future... or sending him into something we don't understand?"The candle flickered between them, as if uncertain, too."I just want him to stay a boy a little longer," she said. "To keep playing in the fields, to pray before bed, to run barefoot after the chickens. He's seven, José.""I know." He reached across the table and took her hand, rough against rough. "But maybe it's not about keeping him a boy. Maybe it's about helping him become the man he was meant to be."They sat in silence again, holding hands.And outside, in the moonlight, Cristiano was asleep—his boots beside his bed, one arm draped over a deflated ball.