I barely slept that night. I imagined hundreds of different possibilities, but none of them resembled what happened the next day.
My parents explained that they couldn’t accept the situation and that they believed it was best for me to start a new life away from the village. They said we all needed time and distance to cope with what had happened.
His words hurt me more than I ever imagined.
I packed a small backpack with some clothes, a few childhood photos, and the old notebook where I used to write down my dreams. Before leaving, I took one last look at my room. Every corner held a memory that I probably wouldn’t see again for many years.
When I crossed the threshold, I felt like I was leaving my entire life behind.
The first few months were extremely difficult. An older woman named Rosa, an acquaintance of a friend of my mother’s, rented me a small room on the outskirts of Guadalajara for a nominal fee. She never asked too many questions, but she always found a way to leave a cup of hot soup outside my door when she sensed I was having a bad day.
