I lived alone in a poor village in Oaxaca, without a husband, without children, without close family.
All my life I worked in the cornfields and sold at the market, saving every peso to survive.
That year, on a torrential 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.
No one wanted to take him in… so I did.
I named him Diego, hoping he would have an enlightened life and a bright future.
Raising a child who isn’t your own blood is difficult enough; raising one in poverty is even more difficult.
I borrowed from neighbors and even applied for a loan at the Welfare Bank to pay for his food, milk, and school supplies.
There were days when I only ate 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 he passed the university exam in Mexico City, I scraped together every 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 try hard, Aunt. Wait for me to come back.”
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.
The phone number was canceled 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, my hands shaking, my back hunched, and my vision already blurred. I had all my paperwork with me and said to the teller:
“Miss, I’ve come to settle my debt. I want to pay whatever’s left, down to the last cent.”
She typed on the computer, looked at me intently, and frowned.
“Wait a moment… this account has already been paid… for two years?”
I froze.
“Excuse me? Who… who paid it?”
The teller scanned the screen again, then read in a low voice:
“Note in register: ‘I pay for my aunt—the only person who loved me unconditionally.'”
“Sender: Diego Hernández.”
I gasped. For a moment, my knees shook so much I had to hold on to the counter to keep from falling.
He hadn’t forgotten me.
He had paid the debt.
Silently… just as he had left.
Tears rolled down my cheeks right there on the bench.
They weren’t from anger, but because this old heart finally understood:
it wasn’t that that orphaned boy had abandoned me… but that he was looking for a way to return, in his own way.
