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 yes, 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 resonated the voice of Doña Erosto Villarreal, echoing through the walls of the country house in the Providencia neighborhood of Guadalajara. It was a hot and windy night, but in that marble room with velvet curtains, the air was sharp.

 Magdalepa remained silent, her heart heavy, while five pairs of little eyes watched her fearfully. “These, please, are 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 her hand and her face hardened with contempt, she pointed toward the main door.

 Go now before I regret not having done it before. Camila, 12, was trembling. Lυisito hugged Mateo tightly. Lυcía clung to her mother’s skirt, and Tomás, the youngest, still wasn’t crying. He was simply crying. Magdalepa took a deep breath, not to respond, but to collapse. She lifted her chin, hugged Tomás, 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 sharing, I’m making a sincere invitation. If you already have something in your heart, subscribe to the channel, activate the campaign, and leave a “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 her. She became rich. No one was left.

 “Are we going to sleep on the street, Mom?” Camila asked. Magdalea looked at her, almost ready to laugh. “Of course, my love. Let’s look for work.” She was afraid; she didn’t know where to go. Until, in the midst of despair, she 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 Tlaquepaque. The houses were modest.

The lights focused on the rusty iron door. 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 her 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 wishes. “My house is small, but it’s enough for what you need,” she said.

 She made hot tea, took towels from the bottom of the closet, 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 Eresto himself hadn’t imagined. A story of dignity, reconstruction, and justice. The street was empty.

 The echo of her footsteps resounded on the cracked sidewalks of the main avenue, while Magdalepa advanced 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 hardened, her lips chapped, 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 someday.” Magdalepa took a deep breath.

 He tried to find something inside that didn’t scare him, but he only found silence. “No,” he replied. He simply reached out and stroked his daughter’s hair without looking at her. Camila missed him. There was no turning back. Little 10-year-old 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 low voice. Magdalea 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 now. She had heard everything. She knew that her Father loved them. Nothing more. She crossed 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 in silence, 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 patal village. 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 fence.

 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 traitorous look as always, even more wrinkled and with his hands covered in wood dust. He was wearing old jeans and an Úpa Sip Mapagas t-shirt.

 His eyes opened wide at the sight of her. Then he looked at the children and didn’t dare 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 Papa 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 a 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 put in the cardboard box. Magdalena looked at him in silence, not knowing how to express her gratitude. She knew that any other word 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 Papa Lúcía, and Lúcisito stared at the ceiling with his eyes open. Camila, on the other hand, wasn’t sleeping. Sitting against the wall, she watched Damiá from afar. She watched him as if she wanted to remember why her 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 enter her room. She sat on the wooden chair, as if she knew that night wasn’t for resting, but for being, for cuddling, except for silence.

 Outside, the city slept, but inside that small house, history was just beginning. And what was about to happen in that humble home carried 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 tin 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 in the sun, wrapped in borrowed blankets. Magdalea, on the other hand, hadn’t slept a wink.

 Sitting in bed, with her back against the wall, she watched them breathe. She listened to their slight creaks, 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. She offered one to Magdalea. She received it with a shy gesture.

 Hot coffee. She recognized it by its aroma. “Haven’t you slept at all?” 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, Magdalea. You and the children. No one will touch you.”

 She remained silent, but her gaze remained empty. She found it hard to accept reality. She had gone from a marble dining room to a simple 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 neighboring room broke the silence.

 “Remember that time you wanted to go to Puebla?” Damiá repeated with an ironic smile. “You said you wanted to learn how to bake.” Magdalea was surprised. No one had reminded her of her dreams in her early years. “I said it as a joke,” she replied. “It didn’t seem like it. You had that 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 idly. Then he looked around.

 He didn’t ask where he was. Today, if today at all, he knew 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’d 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 game room of the old house.

 But when 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 as they spoke. He knew he couldn’t possibly know what had happened, but he could be present. Sometimes silence is worth 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 table overlooking the patio. 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 him deeply silent. Camila, who had been listening from the door, made her way to the front. “Did you know my mom before?” Damiá asked, approaching. “Yes, long before you appeared.”

 “And why weren’t you together?” Camila asked, without malice, but with deep curiosity. Magdalepa responded before him: “Because life sometimes takes you down paths that you can’t wait to follow until it’s too late.” Camila lowered her gaze. She was processing many things at once. That morning she had slowly, but surely, betrayed the calm that had surrounded 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 doing so, Magdaleña watched the 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 next month. It’s too much for you.”

 Magdalepa came out upon hearing his name, took the document, and opened it with trembling hands. Her face darkened when she read the heading: Charged with fraud, signature: Erebús 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” remained open to question, and the signature at the end, Erebús Villarreal, confirmed that, no matter how low the man had sunk, his integrity remained intact. Damia didn’t say anything; she looked at her with a frowning face, her fists clenched, and her 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. Magdalea was slow to respond.

 He closed the folder cautiously, 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. She approached her siblings and led them to the bedroom. He followed her without saying a word. Papa Lúcía turned to look at her mother before entering, as if something inside her told her that the woman who had cared for her since she was born was about to break down.

 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 after having left her on the streets. Losing her home wasn’t punishment enough.

 “Your clothes, your dignity, I’m going to speak to you as a lawyer,” Damiá said, 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 still avoided it. “Let me help you. I don’t want you to go through this alone.” She sat down 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 defending herself, 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 she could do. She ate in silence. Only Tomás, the youngest, looked up occasionally, unable to fully comprehend what was happening around him. That night, before falling asleep, Magdalea 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 habitual 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 I was at home, Magdalepa behaved normally. She did the laundry, hung it up in the yard, and made tight embraces with Papa 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 that he kicked you out?” Magdalepa stopped hanging up the laundry.

 He looked at her with searing pain, with a resignation he could no longer hide. “Your father already knows what it is.” And sometimes, when you’re completely lost, you hurt yourself only 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 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 spread more documents to each other. We have to be prepared.” Magdalepa nodded, feeling a pain in her stomach.

 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, Magdalea 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.

 Upon opening it, she discovered old papers and the handwritten letter from Eros. What she read made her legs tremble. Not only was he stalking her, but he had also used his name to hide something much more serious, something that, if exposed, 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 keys hidden in the inside of the backpack she had managed to rescue before leaving home. When she opened it, she didn’t expect to find anything important, perhaps valuable jewelry or important documents, but what she found there was much worse.

 She carried several documents: investment contracts, tax receipts, and at the bottom, a sheet of paper bearing Eresto’s signature. It wasn’t a farewell letter, but an explanation; a confession disguised as instructions, a brief note instructing her how to transfer certain amounts of money to foreign accounts, depending on 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 she tell them, 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 tired soul, but a firm gaze. She decided to go out and look for work. She couldn’t depend on anyone, not even Damiá. If he would give her a roof over her head, if her children would now see 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 through the streets of Tlaqepqe. She knocked on doors, asked about restaurants, bakeries, and tamale stands. She received several negative responses, some suspicious looks, and a few more mocking glances, 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?” she asked. “I can do it quickly, and nothing will break,” 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 played with the lock on the floor, drawing figures. Tomás slept on a sack full of shavings, with his mouth open and a piece of wood in his hand. 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 when they’re so little. And to think that before we had everything. Magdalepa bent over and covered her face with both hands.

 We had many things before, but not everything. Now we have what matters most. Camila didn’t respond, but the hug they shared said it all. Damiá approached, drying his hands with a rag. “I’m going to make some coffee. Do you want it?” “Yes, thank you. I need it today.” While Damiá boiled the water, Magdalepa sat with him on the stove.

 It took her a few seconds, but she dared. I found something among my things, papers, documents where this was 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 she wrote makes me look like an accomplice.”

And Rrbép already knows. I don’t want to show it to him, 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 off guard. You have to face it. You’re not alone, Magdalepa. So she did, clutching the glass 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 my uncle?” he asked, pointing at 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 use it. Wood is like life; if you force it, it breaks.”

 Luisito nodded as if he’d heard the truth. While he was there, Camila entered her room and took out the notebook where she secretly wrote. She wrote down what she had thought during the day while watching her siblings from the kitchen. “If I ever have children, I’ll tell them that my 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 rattled three times. There were no quick, polite knocks.

 They were dry, firm, as if he didn’t want to accept a visit, just to claim something he believed to be mine. Damiá crossed the room with cautious steps. Magdalepa left with a heavy heart. Camila peeked from the kitchen, stopping Lfsito with her hand so he could 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 morning. I’m looking for Mr. Eriksson Villarreal. This address is listed as his last tax residence,” he said, just in case I wanted to ask him who Damián was. “He doesn’t live here,” he replied tersely. The man flipped through the sheet of paper and raised an eyebrow.

 “Do you know Mrs. Magdalepa Rivas?” Damiá answered immediately. Magdalepa made her way over. “It’s me,” she said. The man took out a sealed envelope with a red summons. “Court 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 yet 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 over 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 deep rage, a need to stop being trampled on. While this was happening in Tlaquepaque, kilometers away, and the rest of the city was far away, on the Guadalajara side, Eresto crossed the Breda River.

 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 a quick 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 astonished admiration. Her sorrows were elsewhere. “You’re brilliant, you have so much self-confidence,” she said more to herself than to him. He ordered another bottle. He was ecstatic. The society, with the businessmen of 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 revealed. 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 angry over women.” Breda smiled. The waiter placed 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, just with patience.” Lúisito looked at him, panting. “And if I’m not patient, the wood breaks, and so will you.” Lúisito hunched his shoulders. Damiá stroked his hair and picked up the sandpaper.

 “I broke a lot of things waiting, too,” she said in a low voice. She didn’t completely miss it, but something about that phrase stuck with her. Magdalena, for her part, had kept the summons along with the papers she had taken from the box. She couldn’t sleep. She was 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 that worried him most. What would happen if Jesus fell and dragged everyone down with him? Thomas woke up while he was sleeping and asked for water. Mary Magdalene got up, gave him a glass, and rocked him until he fell asleep. The boy went back to sleep, sound asleep. She stared at him. He was so small, so flighty, and even so, he carried on his shoulders the story that, if only it were this day… “I won’t let you down,” he cried.

 At dawn, when the neighborhood was barely waking up, Breeda opened her cell phone and confirmed the international transfer. Milloes, behind Eresto’s back, was leaving. And at the motel, the man who had been the owner of everything was sleeping peacefully, unaware that the betrayal he was planning had already preceded him. And the worst part is that his fall hadn’t even begun.

 What was coming would leave him completely alone, and he would return. He woke up alone, without those backpacks that kept him warm. That’s when he woke up in his hotel bed in Colombia América, with a wrinkled shirt, a dry mouth, 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 presented to him.

 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’s still screwed. He got up slowly, put on his gold watch, the only silver one 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 whom the employees at the Country Club had respected. 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 stopped. 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 owner’s name was listed, only the guarantor’s. The trust was in Breda’s name and was a ghost company registered in Querétaro. A pain ran down his spine and his heart pounded.

 For the first time in years, Eresto felt afraid. Not anger, but annoyance, fear. He called the bank. His main problem no longer existed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Villarreal,” said the executive’s voice. “I removed you as the person in charge of the incident 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 pain. 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, you packed your suitcases, you canceled the contract. Where are you going?” He didn’t give any address. He went up to the apartment anyway. He knocked. No one answered. He forced his way in.

 It was empty. The cupboards were empty. The drawers were open; only the pot remained bent on the counter. You taught me to take care of my photo. I just followed your example. Go away. She literally fell to the ground, as if the earth had swallowed her. It had stripped her of everything again.

 But this time it wasn’t out of pride, but out of vanity. His cell phone vibrated. It was a message from the bank. His mortgage had been rejected due to bad credit. He left the apartment, not knowing what to do. He wandered through the streets of Guadalajara, not knowing where to go. The gold watch he’d been wearing on his wrist was now a scam. He sold it that same afternoon at the pawnshop 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 spend the little money he had left. Night fell and he sat on the rooftop of Revolution Park. He watched the children play, the couples laugh, the street vendors strolling with their strollers; people he had previously considered equals and who now reflected back at him.

 At the same time, in Tlaquepaque, Magdalepa served her children rice, egg, and beans. Camila handed out glasses of Jamaican water. Luisito laughed with Tomas 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.

 “Sure,” said Magdalepa. “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 ticket is closed. I’ll show it tomorrow. I’ll talk 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 left 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 down in front of the closed tent, leaned back 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 hadn’t built anything real: a relationship, a friendship, a family who wanted to take care of him.