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.
His help was more important than she imagined.
As the weeks went by, I found a job at a nearby café. In the mornings, I cleaned tables and served breakfast; in the afternoons, I continued my studies through a distance learning program. It wasn’t the life I had imagined, but I was determined not to give up.
