Don Rafael was a humble man who dedicated his entire life to the trade of carpenter in a small town on the banks of the river in the state of Veracruz, near the port city of Veracruz. He specialized in making tables, chairs, and cabinets for the families of the area, and in repairing old door frames eaten away by termites.
He married late. Almost 40 years old, he managed to marry a woman fifteen years older than him, named Marisol. Happiness came late, but it came quickly… and it also left with the same haste.
One rainy morning, when her triplets—Valeria, Camila, and Sofía—were barely three months old, Marisol silently gathered their clothes. On the old wooden table, she left a piece of paper:
“I can’t stand this life of poverty. Take care of the pineapples yourself.”
Yes, tears. Yes, looking back.
Don Rafael held his three little ones in his arms, remaining motionless in the middle of the house with a slate roof through which the rain filtered. Outside, the tropical downpour fell with force. Inside his heart, another storm was also unleashed.
He didn’t curse. He didn’t cry.
He only whispered:
—If he has a mother… his father will also be his mother.
Leave a Comment