When I passed the university entrance exam in Mexico City, I gathered all the money 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.”
But he never came back.
Four years… then five… and nothing.
Not a call, not a letter.
I asked his classmates, even at the university, and it was as if he had never existed.
His phone number was disconnected, and his address was no longer registered.
I went on with my life, bent over with exhaustion, selling vegetables at the market and collecting bottles at night to slowly pay off the debt.
Thirteen years after that first loan to raise him, I returned to the bank with trembling hands, a hunched back, and blurred vision. I had all my paperwork with me and said to the teller:
“Miss, I’ve come to settle my debt. I want to pay what’s left, down to the last cent.”
She typed on the computer, looked at me intently, and frowned.
“Wait a minute… This account has been paid off… for two years now?”
I froze.
