That year, on a torrentially rainy night, I found an abandoned baby at the entrance of a small church. He was still wrapped in an old, soaked blanket, crying his heart out.
Nobody wanted to take charge… so I did.
I named him Diego, hoping he’d have an enlightened life and a bright future. Raising a child who isn’t your own blood is difficult enough; raising him in poverty is even more so. I borrowed from neighbors and even applied for a loan at the Banco del Bienestar (Welfare Bank) to pay for his food, milk, and school supplies. There were days when I ate only tortillas with salt so he could have a new notebook like the other children.
Diego grew up intelligent, obedient, and reserved. He never called me “Mom”; he always called me “Aunt,” but I wasn’t offended. All I wanted was for him to study and become a good man.
When I passed the university exam in Mexico City, I scraped together every last peso I had and, with no other option, mortgaged my small house to get more money from the bank. Diego lowered his head and said to me in a low voice:
—I’ll do my best, Aunt. Wait for me to come back.
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