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11/16/2025

The Widow Bought a Young Slave for 17 Cents… She Never Imagined Who She Had Been Married To

The morning of April 3, 1789, arrived in Veracruz with a sweltering heat that made the air above the cobblestones shimmer. Doña Catalina Medina de Vega adjusted her black mantilla as she surveyed the line of slaves chained in front of the makeshift wooden platform.

It had been three months since she had buried Don Fernando, her husband, and the sugarcane estate urgently needed labor. The creditors would not wait beyond the next month, and her two children were still too young to understand that the family fortune hung by a thread. The auctioneer shouted prices while buyers examined the slaves’ teeth, muscles, and scars as if inspecting livestock.

Catalina had sold her most valuable jewelry days earlier, and in the pocket of her black skirt she carried barely 17 cents in silver—all she had left after paying the most pressing debts. A laughably small amount, insufficient even to buy a sick or useless slave.

At the end of the line, almost hidden by the shadow of an abandoned carriage, Catalina noticed a young man she had never seen before. He could not have been more than 25 years old, yet his face bore the wear of someone who had endured unimaginable suffering. His dark skin was marked with whip scars, his hair unevenly shorn, and his eyes looked at the ground with a mixture of resignation and something else she could not immediately identify.

What caught her attention most was that he wore heavier shackles than the others, and two armed guards specifically watched him.

“And that one?” Catalina asked the auctioneer, a fat man named Marroquín who smelled of brandy and stale sweat.

Marroquín spat on the ground and shook his head.
—He’s no good for field work, ma’am. Problematic. He’s tried to escape three times. His last master nearly beat him to death and still he didn’t learn. I’m selling him just to get him off my hands before he causes more trouble.

“How much do you want for him?”

—20 cents. But for you, a respectable lady, 17 is fine. I just want someone to take him today.

Catalina felt a chill unrelated to the heat.

Exactly 17 cents. It was as if fate were playing a macabre joke on her. With trembling hands, she pulled the coins from her pocket. The auctioneer quickly counted them. He spat in his palm to seal the deal, as custom dictated, and shouted to the guards to remove the young man from the common chain—though keeping his personal shackles on.

When the young man finally lifted his gaze, Catalina felt the world stop.

Those eyes—she knew them. Impossible, but she knew them.
A brown so deep it seemed black in certain lights, with tiny golden flecks near the pupils. For an endless second, their eyes met, and she felt her blood run cold: recognition.

The slave had recognized her too.

11/14/2025

Everyone Laughed at the Millionaire’s One-Legged Son — Until a Poor Black Girl Appeared…

“Look, the robot boy is here!”

Cruel laughter echoed across the courtyard of St. James Academy, one of London’s most prestigious schools.

Twelve-year-old Leo Thompson gripped the straps of his backpack tightly and kept walking. His expensive uniform couldn’t hide the awkward gait of his prosthetic leg.
Each step came with a faint metallic click — a sound his classmates never let him forget.

Leo was the only son of Thomas Thompson, a billionaire real estate tycoon. But money couldn’t buy him friends.
Every day, the insults cut deeper: robot, cripple, half-boy.
The teachers tried to silence the whispers, but they never really stopped.

That morning, the taunts were particularly cruel.
A group of boys formed a circle, blocking Leo’s path.

“Race with us, robot boy!” one of them jeered.
“Oh, wait… you’ll never make it past the first step.”

Laughter erupted.
Leo lowered his eyes, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

Then a new voice broke through the noise — clear, strong, fearless.

“Leave him alone.”

The circle opened slightly.
Standing there was a girl with mahogany skin, neatly braided hair, and worn-out shoes that were too big for her feet.

Maya Williams, the new girl.

The bullies sneered.

“And who are you? His babysitter?”

Maya took a step forward, her eyes blazing.

“No. His friend.”

The courtyard fell silent.
Leo’s breath caught.
No one had ever called him that word at school — friend.

But the bullies only laughed louder.
One shoved Leo, and he stumbled, nearly falling — but Maya caught his arm just in time.

“Don’t you dare touch him again,” she warned.

Everyone held their breath.
A poor black girl defending the crippled son of a billionaire — it was something no one had ever seen before.

And at that moment, Leo realized his life had just changed forever...

To be continued in the comments 👇

11/13/2025

A Billionaire Discovers His Ex-Girlfriend — Whom He Left Six Years Ago — Has Triplets Who Look Exactly Like Him… And the Ending…

It was a cold autumn morning in New York City when Ethan Blake, a self-made billionaire in the tech industry, stepped out of his sleek black Bentley to attend a charity event at a community center in Brooklyn. For years, Ethan had been known for his icy efficiency, his complete devotion to business, and a private life that remained invisible to the public. Yet beneath that polished image, he carried a shadow from his past — one he had tried to bury forever.

Inside the crowded community hall, children ran back and forth, volunteers handed out food, and local parents chatted while waiting for the program to begin. Ethan’s assistant guided him toward the stage, but his attention suddenly caught on three small children — two boys and a girl — sitting at a table, coloring with crayons.

Ethan froze. His heart stopped.

The triplets couldn’t have been older than five, but their resemblance to him was unmistakable. The same sharp jawline, the same storm-gray eyes, even the same little half-smile he often caught himself making in the mirror. They looked like smaller, brighter, purer versions of himself.

Before he could process the shock, a familiar voice rang out behind him.

“Michael, Noah, Lily… it’s time to eat!”

He turned sharply, and his world tilted. Standing there, holding three trays of food, was Claire Thompson — the woman he had once loved more than anyone, the woman he had left six years ago when his career demanded everything from him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Claire’s face hardened, and Ethan realized instantly that she had no intention of greeting him. She walked past him as if he were just another donor, setting the trays in front of the children. The triplets’ faces lit up at her presence; they hugged her tightly before devouring their meals.

Ethan felt his chest tighten. Six years ago, he had left Claire with a cold, calculated breakup, claiming he had no time for a relationship. He had never looked back. But now, staring at those children who mirrored every one of his features, the truth struck like a blade: he hadn’t just left Claire — he had walked away from a family he didn’t even know existed.

His mind spun. Could they really be his? Was this an impossible coincidence? The timelines fit. The faces fit. Deep down, he already knew.

And for the first time in years, the man who thought he had everything… felt completely powerless.

To be continued in the comments…

11/13/2025

“You Need a Roof… And I Need a Mother for My Daughters… Come With Me,” Said the Landowner

“You need a roof, and I need a mother for my daughters. Come with me,” said the landowner.

Mariana Gutiérrez felt her legs give out as she finally let her body rest by the edge of the dusty road. She had been walking since dawn, carrying nothing but a worn-out suitcase that held everything she owned in the world. Her employer had been clear.

After discovering that a few pieces of fabric had gone missing from the shop’s inventory, the mistress no longer wanted to see her around. It didn’t matter how many times Mariana insisted she had never taken anything that wasn’t hers. The accusation had already been made, and in that small town where she worked, the word of the lady of the house carried more weight than any defense.

That was when she heard the sound of hooves and wooden wheels crunching on dry earth. Mariana lifted her tired eyes and saw a cart approaching, pulled by a chestnut-colored horse. The man driving it wore a wide-brimmed hat and had a neatly trimmed dark beard. Behind him, in the wooden wagon, five little girls huddled together, all with light hair and curious eyes fixed on her.

The landowner pulled the reins, and the horse stopped a few meters away from where Mariana was sitting.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, his deep voice filled with genuine concern.

Mariana shook her head, trying to stand with dignity despite the exhaustion weighing down every muscle in her body.

“Just tired. I’m heading to the next town to look for work.”

The man dismounted with the ease of someone who had spent his whole life on ranches. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his frame showing years of physical labor. His brown eyes studied her for a moment — not with suspicion, but with quiet assessment.

“On foot? It’s more than twenty kilometers from here to Valles del Sur,” he said, removing his hat and running a hand through his dark hair. “And the sun is getting stronger.”

“I have no other choice,” Mariana replied, trying not to reveal the desperation she felt. Her savings were barely enough for one meal, certainly not for a bus ticket.

Then one of the little girls — the youngest, no older than three — stretched out her tiny arm toward Mariana.

“Papa, she looks sad,” the child said softly.

The landowner looked at his daughter, then back at Mariana. A heavy silence followed, as though he were weighing a difficult decision. Finally, he placed his hat back on his head and took a few steps toward her.

“My name is Ernesto Mendoza,” he said. “I have a ranch about ten kilometers from here, in San Miguel del Valle. And I have a proposal for you.”

Mariana felt her heartbeat quicken. Proposals from strangers on the road were rarely good news — but there was something about this man, about the calm authority in his posture and the trust shining in his daughters’ eyes, that made her feel no fear.

“What kind of proposal?” she asked, keeping her voice steady despite her vulnerability.

Ernesto glanced at the five little girls in the wagon before answering.

“You need a home… and I need a mother for my daughters.”

(To be continued…

11/12/2025

For Four Years, I Brought Food to an Old Woman Who No One Noticed—The Memory She Left is One I Will Never Forget In a time when most people are busy pursuing money, success, and praise, we often miss the people who are quietly waiting on the sidelines—not for great things, but just to look at, to remember that they are alive and important. On an old street called Maple Street, there lived an old woman. Almost no one noticed her. In the eyes of many, she was just a shadow in a tired neighborhood—another face covered by time and sadness. Her home was in disrepair; it seemed like it would give way at any moment. The windows were old, the curtains were yellowing, and she had no family to visit or care about. Every day, she just sat on the side of the road, as if trying to make herself small so as not to be in the way. Her eyes were heavy, full of hunger and fatigue. People passed by, some glanced and shook their heads, most just continued as if he wasn't there. But I, stopped.

11/12/2025

I arrived home early from a business trip and found my husband in bed with his secretary. What I did next left them with no other choice.
My name is Ngọc, I’m 33 years old, and I’m head of accounting at an import-export company. My husband, Thành, 37, is a sales director at a major corporation. We’ve been married for seven years and have a five-year-old daughter, who was staying with my parents while I was away on a two-week business trip in Central Vietnam.
I loved my husband. More than love, I trusted him.
Thành was mature, a great father, and often said wise things like:
"A man can see a lot out there, but what keeps him grounded is the home we’ve built together."
I used to feel proud of him. I thought I was a lucky woman.
But everything changed one Friday afternoon.
The Betrayal
My business trip ended earlier than planned because the client canceled at the last minute. I decided not to tell my husband, partly to surprise him, partly because I missed home.
I returned to our apartment at 4 p.m., quietly unlocking the door with my own key. The house was silent: no TV, no music. But something froze my blood instantly: a strange, unfamiliar perfume scent… and soft giggles coming from the bedroom.
I stepped forward, as if guided by some external force. I didn’t call out. I didn’t shout. I simply pushed the door gently.
The hallway light filtered in.
I turned on the bedroom light and saw them.
My husband, completely naked, entangled with his secretary Vy… in our marital bed.
Vy screamed, grabbing a towel as she collapsed to the floor, in shock.
Thành panicked and shouted:
—“Ngọc! When did you get home? Let me explain!”
I didn’t shout. I didn’t cry.
I walked calmly to the closet, took out a box—a gift I had planned to give him for our anniversary next week—and threw it against the wall.
It shattered.
—"Explain? In my bed?"
Vy stammered, trembling:
—"I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean…"
I interrupted coldly:
—"Shut up. I’ll let the law and your company teach you how to behave with your boss’s wife."
The Turning Point
I left the room. My head was spinning like a hurricane.
No, I wasn’t going to let this end with just a slap or tears.
They had betrayed me, but I was not weak.
I had sacrificed my career, my youth, and my opportunities to build this family.
If anything was going to crumble, I would make sure justice was served.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
I sat in the living room, reviewing my phone, every message, every sign I had ignored.
All those sudden overtime hours.
All the messages saying, “Go home first, I need to meet with management.”
All those “accidental” business trips that conveniently aligned.
It all began to make sense.
Vy, the girl who once greeted me politely at company parties, who sent birthday gifts to my child, was the one sleeping with my husband.
The Plan
The next morning, I got up early and called a close friend who worked in Human Resources at Thành’s company. My voice was calm but firm:
"I need the internal records and Vy’s travel logs from the last six months. I don’t care how you get them. I owe you big."
My friend hesitated, but eventually complied.
By noon, I had a copy of the itinerary, showing that Vy and Thành had taken several “casual” trips together, despite working in different departments.
I backed everything up.
One copy in my email.
One on a USB drive.
One on a hidden hard drive.
Then I called Thành.
"You have three days to fix this. Don’t talk to me unless you’re serious."
The Countdown Begins
Three days. That was the deadline I gave him.
I left the house and went to live with my parents, using my daughter as an excuse. But in reality, I needed space. Not to save anything, but to prepare myself to leave with my head held high.
Because I am not a victim.
I am a woman who knows exactly what she is worth.

11/12/2025

"My Dad Works at the Pentagon." The Black Boy's Declaration Made His Teacher and Classmates Mock and Scorn Him, Calling Him a Bad Liar. 10 Minutes Later, His Father Arrived...
"My dad works at the Pentagon."

When those words left the mouth of ten-year-old Malik Johnson, the entire fifth-grade class at Jefferson Elementary School erupted in laughter. His teacher, Ms. Karen Whitmore, paused her lesson on "Careers in Government" and turned to him, her eyebrows raised in skepticism.

"Malik," she said slowly, her voice tinged with disbelief, "we are all sharing honestly here. It's not polite to make things up."

The other children snickered. Jason Miller, the class clown, cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, "Yeah, right, Malik! And my dad is the President of the United States!" The classroom burst into even louder laughter.

Malik's cheeks burned. He wasn't lying, but no one believed him. He leaned back in his chair, clutching the edge of his desk, wishing the earth would swallow him whole. His best friend, Aiden, shot him a sympathetic glance, but even he looked unsure.

"Why would a boy like you even say that?" muttered another girl, Emily Carter. "Everyone knows your mom works at the grocery store. If your dad worked at the Pentagon, you wouldn't be living in our neighborhood."

The laughter and murmurs hurt worse than any physical blow. Ms. Whitmore sighed and turned back to the lesson, clearly dismissing Malik's claim as an childish lie. "Alright, class, let's move on. Who else would like to share?"

Malik didn't say another word. He lowered his head and silently doodled in the corner of his notebook. Inside, however, a storm was brewing. He wasn't trying to show off; he was telling the truth. His father, Colonel David Johnson, really did work at the Pentagon as a defense analyst. But by the way Malik looked, dressed, and where he lived, everyone assumed he was lying.

The bell rang for recess, and the students rushed out. Jason and Emily continued to mock him on the playground, pretending to salute and march like soldiers. "Yes, sir! Reporting for duty to the Pentagon kid's dad!" Jason teased.

Malik clenched his fists, holding back tears. He thought about running to the bathroom to hide, but before he could, something happened that would silence every scoffing voice in that class.

Barely ten minutes later, as the students lined up after recess, a tall, broad-shouldered man in full military uniform walked into the school office. His mere presence commanded respect. Teachers paused their conversations. Students stared wide-eyed. The gleaming badges and medals on his uniform shone under the hallway lights.

It was Malik's father.

And he had come to see his son....
To be continued in the comments

11/12/2025

He Invited His Poor Ex-Wife to His Wedding Just to Humiliate Her… But He Never Imagined She Would Arrive in a Limousine, Dressed Like a Queen… and Holding Their TRIPLETS in Her Arms…

The sun rose over a quiet town, but beneath the calm lay a storm waiting to explode. On the steps of a luxurious hotel adorned with white roses, a wedding was about to begin. The groom, Daniel, stood tall in his impeccable tuxedo, wearing an arrogant smile as he greeted wealthy guests. He wasn’t just celebrating his union with Sofia—a young woman from a rich family—he was also preparing to humiliate someone from his past.

That person was Emma, his ex-wife. Years ago, Emma had been the woman who gave him everything. She worked long shifts as a waitress, cleaned houses at night, and skipped meals so Daniel could climb the social ladder. She believed in him more than she believed in herself. But when Daniel finally achieved wealth, his love grew cold. He began to see Emma as nothing more than a reminder of his struggles, a burden he wanted to get rid of. Without hesitation, he asked for a divorce, leaving her with nothing but a broken-down car and a tiny apartment.

What Daniel never knew was that just a few weeks after the divorce, Emma discovered she was pregnant—with triplets. Alone and heartbroken, she almost gave in to despair. But the thought of three little lives depending on her gave her the strength to fight. She worked tirelessly, balancing two jobs while caring for three babies. Her nights were sleepless, but her determination never wavered. Bit by bit, she rebuilt her life, pouring her creativity into a design job at a small studio. Years later, Emma managed to open her own boutique, which eventually grew into a well-respected business in the city.

Daniel, meanwhile, flaunted his wealth and told stories about how he had “escaped” from a poor wife who was holding him back. When he got engaged to Sofia, he decided to invite Emma—not out of kindness, but to see her suffer. He imagined she would show up in cheap clothes, perhaps arriving by bus, staring in awe at the life she had lost. To Daniel, this would be the ultimate proof of his triumph.

But Daniel was wrong.

The morning of the wedding was bright and golden. Guests in glamorous dresses and luxury cars filled the hotel courtyard. Cameras flashed as Sofia, radiant in her fitted gown, stood beside Daniel, both basking in the attention. Everything was going perfectly—until the soft roar of another limousine made everyone turn their heads…

11/12/2025

Just Because His Wife Was Pregnant With a Girl While His Mistress Was Expecting a Boy, He Went on a Trip With the Mistress and Her Family — Leaving His Wife Alone at Home, About to Give Birth.
But the Day He Returned… He Was FROZEN, Unable to Believe What He Saw...
In a small neighborhood in Xalapa, Veracruz, lived Mariana Cruz and her husband Julián Herrera, a couple who seemed to have it all: a modest house with terracotta-colored walls, a hammock hanging in the patio, and a garden filled with bougainvillea. Mariana worked as an accountant at a local hardware store, while Julián was a construction supervisor in Coatzacoalcos.
They had been married for three years and were joyfully awaiting their first child. But that happiness began to crack when Julián started coming home later and later from work, his phone always face down — and carrying the scent of a perfume that wasn’t Mariana’s.
One day, while folding freshly washed clothes, Mariana accidentally overheard a call Julián had forgotten to hang up:

“I promise that after the trip, everything will be official. No one’s going to stop my son from being born with me,” he said.

A young woman’s voice replied:

“Then tell your wife to stop insisting. My family’s waiting for you this weekend in Cancún.”

Mariana’s world collapsed. That woman was Camila Ríos, a newly hired secretary at Julián’s company — ten years younger than her… and pregnant.
When Mariana demanded an explanation, Julián didn’t even pretend to feel guilty.

“Camila’s giving me a son, Mariana. You… only a girl.”
“And what difference does that make?” she asked through tears.
“It changes everything. In my family, the firstborn son inherits the business. You can stay here… until she’s born.”

Mariana was speechless, her hands trembling as she caressed her belly while he walked out with his suitcase.
Three days later, a tropical storm struck Veracruz. The wind slammed against the windows, and the rain poured relentlessly. Mariana felt her first contractions — alone, with no transportation, and no one to help her.
Barely managing to get to the Xalapa General Hospital, drenched and pale but determined, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl with black hair and rosy cheeks.
Through her tears, she whispered:

“I’ll name you Esperanza… because hope is all I have left.”

No one came to visit her. Not a single call. Not a single message.
A week after giving birth, Julián returned from his trip with his mistress. He arrived in a new truck, laughing, while Camila flaunted her pregnant belly on social media with the caption:

“With the true love of my life.”

When he opened the door to his house… Julián froze in shock.

11/11/2025

I came to celebrate my father-in-law’s birthday and found him alone with cold pizza and in silence. Then my husband and mother-in-law called me on video from Hawaii, laughing: “Hope you’re enjoying babysitting!” That’s when he slowly stood up and said, “It’s time. Let’s give them a surprise.”

I came to celebrate my father-in-law, Charles, and found him alone in the silent house with just a single slice of cold pizza. No balloons, no chorus of “Surprise!” The silence was almost tangible.

Just then, a cheerful FaceTime call broke it. My husband, Avery.
The screen exploded with a Hawaiian sunset. Avery was lounging at a tiki bar, a neon-blue drink in his hand. My mother-in-law, Lauren, leaned into the frame, a hibiscus behind her ear, her face flushed from sun and alcohol.

“Oh, wonderful,” she sang softly, her voice slightly slurred. “The nurse has arrived.”
Avery grinned smugly at the camera. “Hope you’re enjoying taking care of the cripple. We figured he wouldn’t even notice we were gone.”

Lauren clinked her glass against his. “He probably doesn’t even know it’s his birthday.”

I stared at them, their carefree cruelty sinking in. “You left him alone,” I whispered hollowly.
“He’s got you,” Avery shrugged.

I hung up the call. A screech of rubber wheels on tiles. I turned. Charles, the man the doctors had declared immobile, was standing.

“Y-you can walk,” I stammered.
He gave a faint smile. “Since summer,” he confessed in a hoarse voice. “I kept the hand tremor on purpose. Makes them underestimate me.”

He pressed a hidden latch. A secret drawer opened.
“I recorded everything,” he said. Hidden cameras. Their calls. Avery boasting about changing the beneficiary of my IRA. He looked at me. “It’s time. Let’s give them a surprise.”

11/11/2025

On Mother’s Day, my millionaire son visited me and asked, “Are you enjoying the $7,000?”

At three o’clock, as if the clock had synced with my memories, the doorbell rang. My hands were wet from rinsing rice, and the apron, stained with mole, stuck to my hips as I hurriedly wiped it off. The aroma of chicken in mole had seeped into every corner of the house, mingling with the fresh scent of gardenias recently cut from the front yard. It wasn’t a feast, but it was the best my hands could offer for a day like this. It was Mother’s Day, and my heart, though weary, still knew how to beat with hope.

I opened the door and saw him: Ricardo, my only son, standing in the doorway with that catalog smile he had learned to use when he became a businessman. He wore a dark blue suit that looked new, and his shoes shone so brightly that the worn tiles of the hallway reflected like a puddle. Behind him, a step back and carrying a bag from an expensive florist, was Samantha. White dress, perfect nails, sweet perfume that demanded attention. They hugged me, each in their own way: he tightly, as if trying to squeeze the past; she, a calculated touch, measuring distance.

—Mom —Ricardo said, still smiling—. Happy Mother’s Day.

—Thank you, son. Come in, come in. The mole is ready.

They stepped into the living room, the same room where he learned to read, where he tossed his backpacks, where he cried the first time he fought with a friend. The furniture was old, yes, but clean; the edges of the sofas covered with crochet so they wouldn’t wear out further. I like to think that everything has its place, that even though life has taken things from me — his father, my strength, my nimble hands for sewing — the house remains a small homeland under my care.

We hadn’t even sat down when, in a soft voice carrying a seriousness that pierced me like a pin, my son said:

—Are you enjoying the seven thousand, Mom?

I froze, the ladle in mid-air, the mole dripping slowly back into the pot…

11/11/2025

He couldn’t reach his daughter, who had gotten married and lived far away. A 70-year-old father hugged a box of food and swam through the floodwaters to bring help to his daughter who lived in the most affected area… but when he arrived, what he saw left him completely breathless.

For four whole days, relentless rain battered the state of Veracruz. The Papaloapan River overflowed, sweeping away houses, bridges, and roads. On the news, the same sentence was repeated again and again: “The town of San Mateo is completely cut off.”

In a humble little house on the outskirts of Alvarado, a seventy-year-old man watched the television with red, weary eyes. His name was Don Ernesto Ramírez, and his heart held only one thought: his daughter Lucía, who lived with her husband and young son in San Mateo.

He hadn’t heard from them in three days. The phone lines were down. The silence was louder than the roar of the river. He remembered the last words his daughter had said before the call was cut off: “Dad, the water has already reached the patio… but don’t worry, we’ll be fine.”

Those words wouldn’t let him sleep.

The next morning, Don Ernesto made a decision. He packed what little he had: some beans, rice, dry bread, powdered milk, medicine, and a live chicken — the one he had planned to cook for his grandson. He put everything into an old styrofoam box and, with a black marker, wrote on the lid: “For my daughter Lucía – With all my love, Dad.”

The neighbors tried to stop him.
—“Don Ernesto, don’t do it! The water is too dangerous!”
But he only replied firmly: “If I stay here, how will I know if my daughter is still alive?”

Without another thought, he put on a patched life jacket, hugged the box, and jumped into the icy water. The current pushed him, debris struck his legs, but he kept moving forward, heart pounding in his chest.

The river roared like a beast. Every meter was a battle. Don Ernesto clung to branches, pushed forward with his arms, and whispered prayers between his teeth: “Holy Virgin of Guadalupe, don’t let me fall.”

After nearly two hours of struggle, he reached the first houses of San Mateo. Only the rooftops rose above the water. On one of them were several people wrapped in soaked blankets.

He shouted with all his strength:
“Lucía! Lucía Ramírez!”

A heartbreaking silence.

Until a woman from another rooftop answered:

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