I lived alone in a poor village in Oaxaca, without a husband, without children, without any close family. All my life I worked in the cornfields and sold things at the market, saving every peso to survive.

I lived alone in a poor village in Oaxaca, without a husband, children, or any close family.

All my life I worked in the cornfields and sold things at the market, saving every peso to survive.

That year, on a night of torrential rain, I found an abandoned baby at the entrance of a small church.

He was still wrapped in an old, soaked blanket, crying inconsolably.

No one wanted to take him in… so I did.

I named him Diego, hoping he would have a bright life and a future.

Raising a child who isn’t your own flesh and blood is hard enough; raising one in poverty is even harder.

I borrowed from neighbors and even took out a loan from the Banco del Bienestar (Bank of Well-being) to pay for his food, milk, and school supplies.
There were days when I ate nothing but 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,” always “Aunt,” but it didn’t offend me. I just wanted him to study and become a good person.