He had it all: a faithful wife, five children who admired him, and a house that looked like a palace, but at one point he threw them away as if they were garbage. Years later, he returned dejected, and if not even his children remembered him.
This is the story of a man who lost everything for pride and a woman who, with dignity, rebuilt herself from scratch. I don’t want to see you in this house again, you and your blessed children. Thus resounded the voice of Doña Erosto Villarreal, echoing through the walls of the farmhouse in the Providencia neighborhood of Guadalajara. It was a hot and windy night, but in that marble room with velvet curtains, the air was cut like a knife.
Magdalepa remained silent, her heart heavy, while five pairs of little eyes watched her fearfully. “This, please, is your children,” she gasped, but he was no longer listening. He saw them only as a nuisance and her as a dead burden. With a glass of wine in his hand and his face hardened by contempt, he pointed towards the main door.
Go now before I regret not having done it before. Camila, 12, was trembling. Luisito hugged Mateo tightly. Lucia clung to her mother’s skirt, and Tomas, the youngest, didn’t cry yet. He just cried. Magdalepa took a deep breath, not to respond, but to collapse. She lifted her chin, hugged Tomas, and, with her other hand, pulled Camila toward the door.
On the other side, the city continued as if nothing had happened, as if the family were being torn apart from within. Before you share, I offer you a sincere invitation. If you already have something in your heart, subscribe to the channel, activate the campaign and leave your “like” because this story is based on events that happen more often than we think and it will touch your hearts.
And if you’ve ever seen someone pay dearly for justice, write the word “justice” in the comments. Now, let’s talk. We walked for more than an hour through the streets of the center, carrying a backpack with clothes and important papers. No one offered help, no one asked, no one cared. Magdalepa didn’t know where to go. Her mother’s house was abandoned. Her friends gathered around. He became rich. No one was left.
“Are we going to sleep on the street, Mom?” Camila asked. Magdalea looked at her, excited to laugh. “Of course we are, my love. We’re going to find work.” He was scared; he didn’t know where to go. Until, in the midst of despair, he remembered a man: Damiá López. An old friend, an impossible love from the past, someone who had never hurt her. They arrived at the simple street of Tlaqepaque. The houses were modest.
The lights gathered in front of the rusty iron gate. Magdalepa stopped. She knocked. She knocked again. A rocky voice answered from inside. “Who am I, Magdalepa?” The door opened slowly. Damiap, with his old, stone-stained shirt and his surprised face, didn’t say anything at first.
He only saw Magdalepa and the five children behind her. “What happened to you?” he asked without judging her. She couldn’t answer. Tears flowed without permission. Camila squeezed his hand. Tomás was already asleep in her arms. Damiá let them in without questions, without desires. “My house is small, but it’s enough for you to need,” she said.
She made some hot tea, took some towels from the back of the cupboard, and for the first time in years, Magdalea slept without screams, without threats, without fear. But that night was more than a refuge. It was the beginning of something that Eresto himself hadn’t imagined. A story of dignity, reconstruction, and justice. The street was empty.
The echo of their footsteps resounded on the cracked sidewalks of the main avenue, while Magdalepa moved forward with the five children behind her as if she were only a broken body. Camila carried the backpack with the clothes. Lúsisto carried Tomás, half asleep, in his arms. No one was crying now.
Their tears had dried their skin, like the earth that stops asking for water when it resigns itself to the drought. Magdalepa didn’t say a word. Her face was hard, her lips were cracked, and her gaze fixed on the front. She didn’t know where she was going, but she couldn’t stop. If she stopped, the children would understand that nothing was left. “Mom,” Camila said in a stony voice. “We’ll come back one day.” Magdalepa took a deep breath.
She tried to find something inside that wasn’t scary, but she only found silence. “No,” she replied. She simply reached up and stroked her daughter’s hair without looking at her. Camila understood. There was no turning back. 10-year-old Luisito looked around. He had never seen his mother walk with her shoulders so cold. For the first time in his life, he thought that adults could break too.
“Where are we going to sleep, Mom?” he asked in a soft voice. Magdalena clenched her teeth. She wanted to tell them that everything would be okay, that it was temporary, that Jesus would change his mind, but she couldn’t lie to them anymore. She’d heard everything. She knew her father loved them. Nothing more. They went through the closed door.
The smell of dough seeped in from under the metal screen. Tomás woke up in Lísito’s arms and began to cry. Magdalena picked him up and rocked him silently, while six-year-old Mateo walked, clinging to his mother’s skirt. The heat of the night was beginning to subside. A light breeze lifted the dust from the ground.
The sky was clear, but there were no stars, only darkness above them. In the distance, the lights of the humble neighborhood began to twinkle. Magdalepa recognized the streets of her hometown. Claqe Paqe. That’s where she had grown up. That’s where she had laughed for the last time before marrying Eresto. She stopped in front of a small house with whitewashed walls and a rusty iron gate.
Her heart was beating fast in her throat, not from fear of rejection, but from shame. She hadn’t seen Damián in more than fifteen years. He had been her friend, almost her boyfriend, but she had chosen another path. She had chosen Erosto, and now she was here, barefoot, her soul broken. She looked at the children. She was exhausted.
They couldn’t continue walking. He knocked on the door once, twice. Nothing. He knocked again. This time louder. “What?” a male voice answered, hoarse, surprised, and suspicious. “It’s me, Magdalea.” Silence. Soft footsteps were heard on the other side. The lock turned. The door opened slowly, and there he was, Damiá López, with the same treacherous look as always, although even more wrinkled and his hands covered in wood dust. He wore old paпtaloпes and υпa siп maпgas t-shirt.
His eyes opened wide at the sight of her. Then he looked at the children and couldn’t bear to say a word. “What happened?” he asked in a low voice. Magdalena couldn’t speak; she simply lowered her gaze, hugged Tomás more tightly, and the tears began to fall. She didn’t scream, or explain, she just cried. Damia didn’t ask any more questions; she stepped aside.
“Come in,” Camila said. She was the first to enter. Luisito and Ana Lucia followed her. Mateo followed. Magdalea entered last, as if wondering if she deserved such a gesture. The door closed behind them, but for the first time that night, it didn’t feel like punishment, but like a refuge. Inside the house, the air smelled of wood, old coffee, and peace.
Damiá offered them water. Then he took the bags he had saved in the cardboard box. Magdalena looked at him in silence, not knowing how to express her gratitude. She knew any other words would break the warmth of the moment. “My house is small, but it’s enough for you,” she said as she spread the bags on the living room floor. Tomás immediately fell asleep.
Mateo hugged Ana Lúcía, and Lúcisito stared at the ceiling with his eyes open. Camila, on the other hand, wasn’t sleeping. Sitting against the wall, she looked at Damiá from afar. She watched him as if she wanted to remember why his mother had killed him. Magdalepa sat next to her daughter and stroked her hair. “Thank you for being so strong today,” she whispered.
Camila didn’t respond, she just rested her head on his shoulder. Damiá turned off the living room light, but didn’t go into her room. She sat in the wooden chair, as if she knew that night wasn’t for resting, but for being, for hugging, except for silence.
Outside, the city slept, but inside that small house, the story had just begun. And what was about to unfold in that humble home had more weight than any of them could imagine. Dawn came without making a sound.
The morning heat gave way to a warm breeze that entered through the half-open doors of Damiá’s house. Outside, the first rays of sunlight illuminated the sheet metal roofs and cracked facades of the neighboring houses. Inside, in the living room, the silence was blissful, sacred. The five children continued to sleep fearfully on the ground, wrapped in borrowed blankets. Magdalea, on the other hand, hadn’t slept a wink.
Seated on the bed, with her back against the wall, she watched them breathe. She listened to their slight rustles, the voluntary movements of their married bodies. She felt empty, as if the previous night had emptied her soul. Damia appeared with two earthenware cups in her hand. He offered one to Magdalea. She received it with a shy gesture.
Warm coffee. She recognized it by its aroma. “You haven’t slept at all, have you?” he asked reproachfully. “I can’t,” she replied. “All this still seems unreal to me.” Damia sat on a small wooden stool next to her. “You’re safe here, Magdalena. You and the children. No one will touch you.”
She nodded in silence, but her gaze remained blank. She found it hard to accept reality. She had gone from a marble dining room to a mere cemetery, from a powerful husband to a shared house, but she didn’t complain. She felt that, although it hurt her, this betrayal brought with it something that had never been peaceful in the house. Several minutes passed without speaking. Only the sound of someone washing dishes in the next room broke the silence.
“Remember that time you wanted to go to Puebla?” Damiá said repeatedly with a wry smile. “You said you wanted to learn how to bake.” Magdalea was surprised. No one had reminded her of her dreams for years. “I said it as a joke,” she replied. “It didn’t seem like it. You had that look on your face. Like someone who wants something more.” She lowered her gaze.
That look had vanished a long time ago. One of the children moved. It was Lυisito, who woke up rubbing his eyes. The first thing he saw was Damiá sitting there. He looked at me for a moment. He didn’t know whether to feel comfortable or embarrassed. Damiá smiled at him. “Good morning, champ. Did you sleep well?” Lυisito nodded leniently. Then he looked around.
He didn’t ask where he was. He understood, if he fully understood, that this place was temporary or perhaps the beginning of something new. “Is there food?” he asked in a low voice. Damiá got up without saying a word, went out to the patio, grabbed the paper bag he had saved from the day before, and came back with the dessert. Four pieces.
There wasn’t enough for everyone, but Magdalea broke each piece in half. It was her way of showing them that, even if it’s just a little, sharing is always enough. “Here, my loves, eat slowly,” she said. Tomás woke up in Camila’s arms. He sat up stiffly, as if he still expected to see the red carpet in the old house’s game room.
But as he looked at the peeling wall and the damp-stained ceiling, he realized he wasn’t there. He hugged his sister and remained silent. Damiá watched everything without intervening. He knew he couldn’t know what had happened, but he could be present. Sometimes silence means more than any words. When everyone had finished eating, Damiá showed them a small room at the front.
There was an old wardrobe, a bed, and a window that overlooked the courtyard. We can move the wardrobe and bring in another mattress. It’s not much, but you can use this room if you want more privacy. Magdalea looked at him gratefully. She wasn’t used to such disinterested generosity. Thank you, Damiá. Really, thank you. She shook her head. You don’t have to thank me for anything.
Don’t disappear again. He swallowed. It wasn’t the time to talk about the past, but the phrase left a lull in his chest. Camila, who was listening from the doorway, made way for the front. “Did you know my mom before?” Damiá asked, leaning closer. “Yes, long before you appeared.”
“And why weren’t you together?” Camila asked, without malice, but with serious curiosity. Magdalepa answered before him, “Because life sometimes takes you down paths that you don’t understand until it’s too late.” Camila lowered her gaze. She was processing many things at once. That morning she betrayed slowly, but with the calm that had been between the two of them for years.
The children began to explore the house, touching old tools in Damián’s workshop, sitting in the yard, and playing with stones as if they were toys. While they did so, Magdaleña watched in silence, with her heart filled with fear, but also with a small spark of something that hadn’t been there for a long time, something like hope. But just as it seemed that the day would end in peace, a knock on the front door interrupted the moment. Damiá went out to see.
A thin woman in a white dress, holding a folder, stared at him. “Mrs. Magdalepa Rivas lives here.” “Yes,” Damiá replied. He was serious. The woman handed him the folder. “You must appear before the civil court on Monday. There’s too much for you.”
Magdalepa went out upon hearing his name, took the document, and opened it with trembling hands. Her face darkened when she read the heading: Defendant for fraud, signature: Erebus Villarreal. The peace hadn’t lasted long, and this time the blow wasn’t just emotional; it was legal, and she saw directly the man who had taken everything from her. Magdalepa held the folder with trembling hands.
It wasn’t just a document; it was a stab in the back written in black. The words “Department of Fraud” were left open to question, and the signature at the end, Erebus Villarreal, confirmed that, no matter how low the man had sunk, his integrity remained intact. Damia didn’t say anything; he looked at her with a frowning face, his fists clenched, and his jaw rigid.
I knew something like this could happen. I knew the kind of man Eresto was, but I didn’t think he’d go that far. “What does he say?” Camila asked from the doorway, her gaze fixed on her mother’s every movement. Magdalena was slow to respond.
He closed the folder carefully, as if afraid the letters would spill out of the paper and hit him in the face. “Nothing, my love, it’s something for grown-ups,” he said, worried about breaking down. Camila didn’t insist, but the tension was getting to her body. She approached her brothers and led them into the bedroom. He followed her without saying a word. Aпa Lυcía, eп turn to look at her mother before entering, as if something inside told her that the woman who had cared for her since she was born was about to collapse.
Once inside the house, Magdalepa sat on the dining room chair. She stared at the closed folder. She felt pain in her stomach and a tightness in her chest. She couldn’t understand how this could continue to hurt her after leaving her on the streets. Losing her home wasn’t punishment enough.
“Your clothes, your dignity, I’m going to talk to you as a lawyer,” said Damiá, breaking the silence. “We can’t leave this like this, and how are we going to pay for it?” she replied, raising her voice for the first time, only to correct herself. “I’m sorry, it’s not for you.” Damiá sat down in front of her, took her hand firmly, but without avoiding her. “Let me help you. I don’t want you to go through this alone.” She nodded with a slight movement. Pride no longer had a place in her life.
She had learned the hard way that accepting help wasn’t just about fighting back, it was about surviving. The hours passed slowly that afternoon. Magdalepa barely ate. She shut herself in her room with the children, pretending to be calm, but outside everything was a storm. Damiá, for her part, shut herself in her workshop and hammered wood as if each blow were a way to vent her helplessness. At dusk, she prepared beans and rice.
That was all I could do. I ate in silence. Only Tomás, the youngest, occasionally looked up, unable to fully understand what was happening around him. That night, before falling asleep, Magdalena took out the small box she kept in the bottom of her backpack. Inside were old photos, a broken rosary, and an unopened letter.
Her mother had written it shortly before she died. She had never read it. Out of fear, out of pain, out of everything she wanted to face at that moment. She opened the envelope. Daughter, if one day you know you can’t do more, remember that surviving isn’t about living on crumbs, it’s about learning to turn them into something. Magdalena dropped the letter and cried in silence. She didn’t want the children to hear her.
She didn’t want Damiá to see her, but the tears flowed with passion, as if her soul were purified by such accustomed justice. The next day, Damiá left early. He went to see an old acquaintance who worked as an intern at a small law firm in the center of Guadalajara. He didn’t have the money for expensive lawyers, but he hoped to find some guidance at the least.
While at home, Magdalepa acted normal. She did the laundry, hung the clothes in the yard, and made tight braids for Ana Lúcía. Camila watched her from the kitchen. She sat with her arms crossed and a furrowed brow. “Why would Dad do something like that?” she asked repeatedly. “Isn’t it enough for him to have kicked you out?” Magdalepa stopped hanging up the clothes.
He looked at her with a burning pain, with a resignation he could no longer hide. “Your father no longer knows what it is.” And sometimes, when you’re completely lost, you hurt yourself just to feel empty. Camila nodded sympathetically, but the anger in her eyes hadn’t disappeared. Something in her had changed, something invisible to the naked eye, but which would soon begin to grow.
Damiá returned that afternoon with disconcerting news. The lawyer, a young man named Rrbé Márquez, agreed to review the case without charging a fee, at least for now. He said that the document presented contained no evidence and that he needed to investigate further. “What matters now,” said Rrbé when he arrived that same afternoon to speak with Magdalepa. “Is that you are not alone. We are going to defend you.”
Magdalepa felt relieved. For the first time in days, she felt like she had a shield; a small one, yes, but more solid than any promise from Eresto. However, Rabbe was clear: “This could escalate, and it wouldn’t be strange if Eresto tried to release more documents against us. We have to be prepared.” Magdalepa nodded, feeling her stomach hurt.
I knew Eresto was capable of many things, but I had no idea how far he was willing to go. That night, while everyone was asleep, Magdalena opened the bag of clothes she had managed to rescue from the house. Among the clothes, she found something she didn’t remember saving: a small wooden box with a description on the lid.
When she opened it, she discovered old papers and the handwritten letter of Eros. What she read made her legs tremble. Not only did he haunt her, but he had also used his name to hide something much more serious, something that, if it came to light, could not only destroy him, but also kill her.
The box was old, with rusty hinges and a layer of dust that betrayed years of untouched existence. Magdalea discovered it among the hidden keys in the bottom of the backpack she had managed to rescue before leaving the house. When she opened it, she didn’t expect to find anything important, perhaps valuable jewelry or important papers, but what she found there was much worse.
There were several documents on her person: investment contracts, tax receipts, and at the bottom, a sheet of paper bearing Eresto’s signature. It wasn’t a farewell letter, it was an explanation; it was a confession disguised as instructions, a brief note instructing her how to transfer certain amounts of money to foreign accounts, stated by her person, her signature, and her credibility as a wife.
Magdalepa felt a shiver run through her body. She slammed the box shut. She knew she couldn’t tell the children anything, and not Damiá either, for now. This information was dangerous. Not only would he tell her, but it could also put her in danger.
She tucked the box under the makeshift mattress and remained silent, hugging Tomás, who was sleeping beside her. The child, oblivious to everything, sought out his mother’s breast and leaned against her as if her innocence could protect her from the cold. The next morning, Magdalepa got up before dawn, washed her face with a spatula and cold water, and looked at herself in the empty glass window. She was already recovering.
The elegant, well-made-up woman had disappeared. Her mother was left with wrinkled clothes, a weary soul, but a firm gaze. She decided to go out and look for work. She couldn’t depend on anyone, not even Damiá. Even if he gave her a roof over her head, even if her children now saw him as part of the family, she felt she had to fend for herself. Out of dignity, out of necessity.
She left Camila in the care of her siblings and walked the streets of Tlaqepqe. She knocked on doors, asked about restaurants, bakeries, and tamale stalls. She received several negative answers, a few suspicious looks, and a few more taunts, but she didn’t stop. Finally, in a small restaurant near the handicraft market, a woman named Doña Remedios listened to her patiently.
“Do you know how to wash dishes?” he asked. “I can do it quickly and it won’t break anything,” Magdalepa replied. “I’ll be back tomorrow at 6. I don’t pay much, but it’s something.” Magdalepa nodded gratefully. She didn’t ask what; the important thing was to have a starting point.
That afternoon, upon returning home, he found Damiá showing Lísito how to open the old lock. Lícía and Mateo were playing with Acerrí on the floor, drawing figures. Tomás was sleeping on a sack full of shavings, with his mouth open and his hand holding a piece of wood. Camila was sitting in the yard reading her school book, but when she saw her mother come in, she closed the door and immediately approached.
Did you get anything? Yes, darling, I’ll start tomorrow. Camila smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, but it was sincere. It was the first good news in days. And you? How were your siblings? Fine. Damian took care of them, made them toys with pieces of wood. And you? Camila looked down. It’s not easy, Mom, to see them happy so little. And to think that before we had everything. Magdalepa bent over and smothered her face with both hands.
We used to have a lot of things, but not everything. Now we have what matters most. Camila didn’t respond, but the hug they shared said it all. Damiá came closer, drying his hands with a rag. “I’m going to make some coffee. Do you want some?” “Yes, thanks. I need it today.” While Damiá boiled the water, Magdalepa sat with him on the stove.
It took a few seconds, but then he dared. I found something among my things, papers, documents where Ezesto used my name to move money. Damiá looked at her with wide eyes. “Are you sure? I’m not entirely sure, but there are signatures of mine that I don’t remember giving. And the note written by him makes me look like an accomplice.”
And Rrbép already knows. I don’t want to show it to her, but I’m scared. And if it only gets worse, Damiá leaned toward her with a firm voice. It’s worse to hide it and be caught unaware. You have to face it. You’re not alone, Magdalepa. She did so, clutching the cup in her hands. That night, before going to sleep, Lυisito approached Damiáp with a poorly cut piece of wood.
“Will you teach me how to do it like uncle?” he asked, pointing to the small tree figure Damiá had carved in the workshop. Damiá smiled and sat beside him. “Sure, but you have to learn to respect the tool, or to use it. Wood is like life; if you force it, it breaks.”
Luisito nodded as if he had heard the truth. While he was there, Camila entered her room and took out the notebook where she secretly wrote. She jotted down what she had thought about during the day while watching her siblings from the kitchen. If I ever have children, I will tell them that their grandfather was a man who had everything and knew how to take care of it.
He closed the safe and put it under his pillow. And just at that moment, someone knocked on the door with three sharp raps. It was almost ten o’clock at night. Too late for a formal visit. Too precise to be a coincidence. The door vibrated three times. There were no quick, polite knocks.
They were dry, firm, as if he didn’t want to accept a visit, but to claim something he believed was mine. Damiá crossed the room with cautious steps. Magdalepa left the room with a heavy heart. Camila peeked out from the kitchen, stopping Lυisito with her hand to move forward. When she opened the door, she saw a man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and carrying a leather briefcase.
His face was tense. His eyes didn’t move quickly. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing. “Good evening. I’m looking for Mr. Eriksson Villarreal. This address appears as his last tax residence,” he said, if I even wanted to ask who Damián was. “He doesn’t live here,” he replied tersely. The man flipped through the sheet of paper and raised an eyebrow.
—So, do you know Mrs. Magdalepa Rivas? —Damiá answered immediately. Magdalepa made way for the front. —It’s me, —she said. The man took out a sealed envelope with a red summons. —Judicial summons. You must appear in three days. There is sufficient evidence against you. Magdalepa took the envelope without saying a word.
The man turned around without saying goodbye. He disappeared into the darkness as if he had no face, as if he were just another example of that blind justice that often punishes the innocent for being on the wrong side of power. Once inside the house, Damiá cautiously closed the door.
“I don’t want the children to get upset about anything,” Magdalea said in a low voice. “This isn’t an attack anymore. It’s a war.” Magdalea nodded, feeling the storm inside. Her fear was growing, but something else was beginning to stir. A tinged rage, the need to stop being trampled on. While this was happening in Tlaqυepaqυe, kilometers away, and the rest of the city was far away on the side of Gυadalajara, Erпesto was bridging the Breпda.
Surrounded by cold glasses, warm lights, and soft background music, he smiled with that smile that only showed he had everything under control. Breda wore red, lipstick, and an easy laugh. “Are you sure everything was on your radar?” she asked, turning the glass over between her fingers. “Completely,” Eresto said. He is legally responsible for what he signed.
He doesn’t even know. Breeda looked at him with frightened admiration. Her inner thoughts were elsewhere. “You’re brilliant, so self-confident,” she said more to herself than to him. He ordered another bottle. He was ecstatic. The society, with the businessmen from the slums, seemed solid.
Breeda, ever generous, had convinced him to transfer the most valuable shares through a trust that she claimed could be used to protect him. But Eresto, blinded by ego, didn’t read it. He signed everything Breeda exposed him. He didn’t believe she could betray him. After all, he had left his family for her.
“You know what?” Eresto laughed. “I don’t understand how men get upset over women.” Breda smiled. The waiter put the bottle on the table. “Yes, I do,” he replied with a fixed, icy stare. That night, while Eresto was toasting with cold wine, Damiá was working in the workshop with Lυisito.
The boy was sanding a piece of wood with force, frustrated because it wasn’t even. “Don’t get angry,” Damiá told him. “Wood doesn’t bend with force, only with patience.” Lυisito looked at him, panting. “And if I’m not patient, the wood breaks, and so will you.” Lυisito hunched his shoulders. Damiá stroked his hair and picked up the sandpaper.
“I broke a lot of things too by waiting,” she said in a low voice. She didn’t miss it entirely, but something about that phrase stuck with her. Magdalena, for her part, had kept the summons along with the papers she had found in the box. She couldn’t sleep. She worried about the trial, about her children, about the inn she was supposed to reach before dawn the next day.
But above all, there was something else that worried him most. What would happen if Jesus fell and dragged everyone down with him? Tomás woke up in his sleep and asked for water. Magdalena got up, gave him a glass, and rocked him until he fell asleep. The boy went back to sleep smiling. She stared at him. He was so small, so volatile, and even so, he carried on his shoulders the story that, if only it were this day. “I won’t let you down,” she whispered.
At dawn, when the neighborhood was barely waking up, Breeda opened her cell phone and confirmed the international transfer. Millions, behind Eresto’s back, were leaving. And in the motel, the man who had been the owner of everything was sleeping peacefully, unaware that the betrayal he was planning had already come before him. And the worst part is that his fall hadn’t even begun.
What was coming would leave him completely alone and he would turn back. He woke up alone, one of those backpacks that kept him warm. That’s when he woke up in his hotel bed in Colonia America with his shirt wrinkled, his mouth dry, and a vague desire for success. The night before, he had signed a new investment agreement with the group of businessmen from the Vajío region that Breda had introduced him to.
He didn’t even remember how many drinks he’d had or the documents he’d signed. He only remembered his smile, that proud smile of someone who thinks he still rules the game. He got up slowly, put on his gold watch, the only silver he had left, and dialed Breda’s number. He called once. Twice. Nothing.
He frowned, showered, went down to the lobby, and ordered breakfast with a haughty air, but the waiter hurried him. It was no longer Mr. Villarreal that the employees of the Country Club had shown respect to. He was just another guest, and he was starting to hate him. At noon, he contacted Breda again.
He called his cell phone, then the office phone, then his assistant’s, all of them off or unanswered. He felt sick to his stomach. The cap that had covered him while he signed documents and toasted champagne began to melt between his fingers. He returned to his room and opened his briefcase. Among the papers, he found the investment contract.
He began reading it for the first time. The title was different, the conditions were different, and only the name was listed as the owner, only as the guarantor. The trust was in Breda’s name and was a ghost company registered in Querétaro. Pain ran down his spine and his heart pounded.
For the first time in years, Eresto felt afraid. Not rage, but annoyance, but fear. He called the bank. His main issue no longer existed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Villarreal,” said the executive’s voice. “I removed you as the head of the issue three days ago by private order. What the hell are you saying?” Eresto shouted. “You signed the instructions. We have the documents.” He hung up.
His head was spinning with grief. He left the room without closing the door and took a taxi to the building where Breda lived. The doorman looked at him sideways. The woman said to herself: “Yesterday, with your suitcases, you canceled the contract. Where are you going?” She didn’t leave an address. She went up to the apartment anyway. She knocked. No one answered. She forced her way in.
It was empty. The cupboards were empty. The drawers were open, only the folded-up pot remained on the kitchen counter. You taught me how to take care of my photo. I just followed your example. Go away. It literally fell to the ground, as if the earth had swallowed it. It had stripped it of everything again.
But this time it wasn’t out of pride, but out of self-importance. His cell phone vibrated. It was a message from the bank. They had rejected his mortgage due to poor credit history. He left the apartment without a clue. He wandered through the streets of Guadalajara, not knowing where to go. The gold watch he wore on his wrist was now a rip-off. He sold it that same afternoon at the pawn shop for a quarter of its value. He ate tacos on the street.
Not by choice, but out of necessity. He didn’t know how much longer he would use up the little money he had left. Night fell and he sat on the roof of Revolution Park. He watched the children play, the couples laugh, the street vendors wandering around with their strollers; people he had once considered equals and who now mirrored it.
At the same time, in Tlaquepaque, Magdalepa served her children rice, egg, and beans. Camila handed out glasses of Jamaican water. Luisito laughed with Tomás about something that had happened at school. Lucia proudly showed off the gold star her teacher had given her for reading well out loud. “Do you think we can go back to the zoo someday?” Mateo asked.
“Of course,” Magdalepa said. “Maybe soon, but we’ll make it.” Damiá looked at her from across the table. With everything they were missing, that house was full of things money couldn’t buy. That same night, Eresto returned to the hotel. The manager was waiting for him at the reception desk. “I’m sorry, sir.”
Your reservation has expired and we are not authorized to extend it. Your account is closed. I’ll file it tomorrow. I’ll speak to my lawyer. There’s no time, sir. You must vacate the room now. He left, grabbed his briefcase, a couple of shirts, and went downstairs. No one helped him. No one opened the door for him.
He went out with his own suitcase in hand for the first time in years. And as he walked down Chapultepec Avenue, he felt his whole body falling apart. He sat in front of the closed tent, settled himself on the cardboard, closed his eyes, and cried, but something inside him broke. It wasn’t just the suitcase; It was the realization that all this time he had not built anything real, a relationship, a friendship, a family that wanted to take care of him.