He was now much taller than his father. In his hand, he held his graduation diploma.
The two looked at each other for a few seconds.
Don Rafael lowered his head and said in a trembling voice,
“Forgive me…ucrm for never having entered your school.”
Mateo didn’t answer immediately.
He looked at his father’s rough hands, the hands that had repaired shoes all their lives.
Then he held up the diploma.
His eyes filled with tears.
“Dad…”
he said softly.
“Do you know why I always studied so hard?”
Don Rafael looked at him, confused.
Mateo took a deep breath, as if trying to hold something back in his chest.
“Because for twelve years… every time I looked toward the school gate…”
He stopped.
His eyes went to the old chair under the jacaranda tree.
And then Mateo said something that left Don Rafael completely paralyzed.
But that sentence…
also made the teacher who had just come out of the gate freeze as he heard it.
—…I always saw you there.
Don Rafael blinked slowly, as if those words had come from very far away.
The noise from the patio, the laughter, the mariachi music… everything seemed to fade away.
Mateo gripped the diploma with both hands.
Her fingers trembled slightly, not from nerves, but from the weight of something she had kept hidden for many years.
—And every day I thought the same thing—he continued—.
He paused for a long time, taking a deep breath.
—If my dad can wait outside every day… then I can study one more day.
Don Rafael felt something gently break inside his chest.
It wasn’t pain.
It was something deeper, something that had been hidden for too long.
He looked down at his own hands.
Rough hands, with dry cracks from the glue and leather.
