Ricardo Pedrosa

Sometimes, it's the smallest things that bring joy, like when my youngest daughter paints the walls of our house with bright colors. She insists on drawing flowers and suns, even though we don't have a proper garden. It’s her way of creating beauty in a place where everything is concrete and chaos.

Last week, after a long day of hauling a refrigerator up a steep, twisting alley, I came home to find her waiting with a drawing she made of me. In it, I had muscles like a superhero, and I was holding the world on my shoulders. I laughed so hard my ribs hurt. "That's how you see me?" I asked her, and she nodded, serious as could be. "You're the strongest man, Papai."

That night, Rocinha, the favela where we live, was quieter than usual—no gunshots, no shouting. My wife made feijoada, and we ate together, all of us at the little wooden table I built years ago when I first started my business. The kids told jokes, and for a moment, I could pretend that life wasn't so precarious.

I’m 38 now, older than many men around here live to be. My neighbor, Eduardo, died at 32. His wife and kids are barely scraping by now. I think about them when my back screams at me to stop. I think about Eduardo when I haul another couch or bed frame up a narrow staircase. If I stop, who takes care of my family?

Sometimes, at night, I sit outside and look at the lights of São Conrado twinkling below. The contrast is almost absurd—my aching body on a rickety plastic chair, staring at mansions where people drink wine and complain about traffic.

But on nights like tonight, when my children laugh and my wife's feijoada fills the air, I remind myself: happiness isn’t only for those with easy lives. It’s for those of us who find it wherever we can.