Chapter I: Land and Solitude

My name is Dolores. I was born and raised in San Jacinto, a poor little town in southern United States where the houses seem to shrink under the sun and the land is as harsh as fate. My life was always simple and quiet, marked by work, loneliness, and resignation. I had no husband, no children, no close family. Just the land, my plot of land, and the tin roof that protected me from the rain and the heat.

From a young age, I learned to save every peso, to stretch my money like you stretch tortilla dough. My routine was the same as always: get up before dawn, light the fire, make pot of coffee, and head out to the fields with my old hat and weathered hands. The land never gives much, but it gives enough to survive, if you know how to wait and work.

The town was small, just a few dirt streets and adobe houses. Children played among puddles and chickens, dogs slept under rusty cars, and the church was the only place where people gathered to pray for rain, health, and miracles. I attended on Sundays, but my faith was more one of habit than hope.

So the years passed, one after another, without any major changes or surprises. Until that night of torrential rain.

Chapter II: The miracle under the storm

It was September, and the rain was falling like never before. The sky roared with thunder, and water ran through the streets, carrying leaves and trash. I was returning from the cornfield, my shawl soaked and my feet muddy, when I heard a high-pitched cry near the church. At first, I thought it was a cat, but the sound was different, desperate.

I approached cautiously, shining my flashlight. Beside the church door, under the eaves, lay a small bundle wrapped in an old, soaked, and dirty blanket. The crying grew louder and louder, as if the whole world were collapsing around it.

I knelt down and pulled back the blanket. It was a baby, barely a few months old, with cold skin and a face wet with tears. There was no one around, not a note, not a sign of who had left him there.
“Oh, baby,” I murmured, trembling.

I picked him up and took him home. I made him warm milk, wrapped him in dry blankets, and prayed he wouldn’t get sick. All night I rocked him, singing old songs my mother taught me, until he fell asleep.

At dawn, I went to ask the neighbors, the priest at the church, the women at the market. No one knew anything, no one wanted to take responsibility. Some told me to take him to the police, others to leave him at the hospital, but I couldn’t. I felt like that child had come into my life for a reason.

So I adopted him, without any paperwork or formalities. I named him Ernesto, like my grandfather.

Chapter III: Parenting in poverty

Raising a child who isn’t your own blood is difficult; raising one in poverty is even more so. The first few years were tough. Ernesto was often sick, and I spent what little I had on medicine and milk. I borrowed from neighbors and even applied for a loan at the rural development bank to pay for his food, school supplies, and a carton of milk. Often, I only ate atole or tortillas with salt so he could have a new notebook like the other children.

The bank looked at me with suspicion every time I went to borrow money. The house was my only collateral, and every signature weighed like a stone. But there was no other option. My greatest fear was that one day they would take away my roof and we’d be homeless.

Ernesto grew up intelligent, responsible, and quiet. 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. I felt proud every time he got good grades, even though he never smiled much.

The townspeople murmured. They said I was crazy to raise someone else’s child, that such a child would bring bad luck. But all I could think about was giving him a better future.

Chapter IV: The Greatest Sacrifice

When Ernesto finished high school, he passed the university exam in the city. It was the happiest day of my life. I scraped together every peso I had and, with no other option, mortgaged my small house to get more money from the bank. The clerk looked at me with pity, but I told her I trusted my boy.

The night before he left, Ernesto lowered his head and said to me in a low voice:

—I’ll do my best, Aunt. Wait for me to come back.

I prepared her clothes, gave her a bag of sweet bread, and placed a medal of the Virgin around her neck. I gave her a long hug, as if to remind her she’d never forget me.

But he never came back.

Chapter V: Waiting and Absence

Four years passed… then five… and nothing. Not a call, not a letter. I asked his classmates, even at university, and it was as if he had never existed. The phone number was canceled and his address was no longer registered. I carried on with my life, bent over with exhaustion, selling vegetables at the market and collecting bottles at night to slowly pay off the debt.
Every birthday, every Christmas, I put an extra plate on the table, hoping that one day he would return. The people in town looked at me with pity, but I didn’t lose hope. I dreamed of seeing him walk through the door, a good man.

The years passed. My back bent, my vision blurred, and my hands grew slower. The debt kept growing, and the bank kept pressuring me further and further.

Chapter VI: The last payment

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, stared at me, and frowned.

—Wait a moment… this bill has already been paid… for two years?

I froze.

—What do you mean? Who… who paid for it?

The cashier checked the screen again, then read in a low voice:

—The note on the payment register read: “For everything you did for me. With eternal gratitude. Ernesto.”

I felt my heart leap in my chest. Tears blurred my vision. I couldn’t believe it. After so many years of absence, of silence, of doubt, Ernesto had returned to me in the only way he knew how: by repaying the debt I had incurred for him.

Chapter VII: The Reunion

I left the bank with my soul in turmoil. I walked through the streets of the town, remembering every moment with Ernesto: his first steps, his illnesses, his silences, his promises. I sat on the bench in the plaza and cried like never before. People passed by me; some stopped, others walked on.

That night, when I returned home, I found a letter under my door. It was a plain envelope, with no return address. I opened it with trembling hands.

“Aunt Dolores:

I know I wasn’t the son you deserved. Life took me far away, and my fears kept me silent. But I never forgot your sacrifices, your words, or your hugs. Everything I have, I have thanks to you. I repaid the debt, but I can never repay the love you gave me.

If I can ever go back, I will. If not, know that I always carry you with me.

With eternal gratitude,

“Ernesto.”

I read the letter over and over again. I felt the weight of the years lift. It didn’t matter whether I returned or not. The important thing was knowing that my love had left its mark.

Chapter VIII: Life Goes On

After that day, my life went on as usual, but with a lighter heart. I continued working the land, selling vegetables, collecting bottles. The townspeople looked at me differently, with respect and admiration.

Sometimes the children would come up to me and ask for advice. I would tell them Ernesto’s story, about how love can change lives, even if it isn’t always easy or perfect.

I learned that raising a child isn’t a matter of blood, but of the heart. That sacrifices aren’t always rewarded the way you’d like, but they always leave a mark.

The house remained humble, but now it was warmer. The extra plate on the table was no longer a wait, but a memory.

Epilogue: The Debt of the Heart

Many years later, when my back no longer allowed me to work the land, I sat under the tree in the square and watched the children play. I thought of Ernesto, of his letter, of the debt repaid.
I understood that love is the only debt that is never fully repaid, but also the only one worth incurring.

And so, between memories and silences, I lived my final years, grateful for the miracle of that rainy night and for the son that life had given me.

END