Of Rainbows and Dreams: A True Story of a Father and His Infinite Love

I saw her being born. It's not just a way of saying it: I was there, right at the exact moment she came out of her mother's womb. I was the first to hold her, and she entered the world accompanied by music, just as she had spent her entire pregnancy: many nights, before going to sleep, I would place headphones on her mother’s belly so she could listen with me.

I changed her first diaper and so many others afterward. During her first three months, I was the one who dressed her. Her mother was afraid of hurting her; I showed her that she was strong, that she was like rubber, while I adjusted her onesie. I learned the perfect weight of her asleep body on my chest, in that fetal position she seemed to choose to return to the safest place she knew.

I taught her to walk, to talk, to laugh, and to dream. In her little steps and the few words she was accumulating, sometimes she would look for me on the mornings when I wasn’t there. However, for a long time, I couldn’t write her a song. As if love, being so immense, couldn’t find a way out.

During her first four years, I traveled one week each month for work. I used to leave with her spirit in my place and stayed at a dear friend's house. However, there was one trip when everything changed: I didn’t want to leave. I felt like I would miss her too much. I had barely traveled thirty kilometers when I was already calling her to hear her.

Renzo Piqué manages to capture the love of many parents in a song.

I arrived in Buenos Aires with a flu that stayed with me until the next day. That afternoon, I borrowed my friend's guitar, and in a few minutes, a song appeared: “Of Rainbows and Dreams.” That night, perhaps due to the music or the relief of having put it into a song, I felt that even from afar, I could find a way to return to her.

Six years have passed since she was born. During that time, I built a family and developed my work project. Her existence was an energy that pushed me even when I didn’t know where to find strength.

I took her to daycare even if she cried at farewell. Sometimes I would tell her, “You have to fulfill your dreams. Don’t let others tell you what to do, no matter what they say.” I didn’t know then how much that phrase would weigh when I had to live it myself.

At the beginning of 2023, I remembered why I had started my project: I wanted to build a structure that would support my musical career. I didn’t want music to be a pastime or a fleeting fantasy. I wanted to truly live it. So, I decided to start playing again and recording an album. But the final decision was not solely mine. I also faced the question: if I gave it all up, what would I be teaching her?

Over time, spaces, versions, silences, and absences emerged. I lived that as an emotional battle. Meanwhile, she began to drift away. Perhaps my own absences had something to do with it, even though I tried to see her and was present almost every day.

Sometimes, saying “yes to everything” seems easier than a necessary “no.” She is a child and shouldn’t have to carry the burden of understanding the differences between adults. Sometimes, I feel that between us, there remains a pulse of egos, a dispute in which I never wanted her to be involved.

Today, my daughter makes decisions that sometimes feel too big for her age. Sometimes she chooses not to come to my house, the place of occasional "no's" and limits. It hurts me, but I don’t want that pain to turn into reproach for her. It’s not her obligation to understand what I am just beginning to name.

I know how to wait. Not because I’m certain of when she will return, but because there’s a place in me that remains hers. When life gives her words to look at her story, I hope she can find that her dad's door was never closed. If one day she crosses back through it, I will be waiting for her with open arms. Just like that first time.