He had given his blood so that I could have an education. Yet, the day he came to ask me for a little help, I couldn’t give him a single cent. He left silently, eyes wet, heart broken.
The man who raised me wasn’t my biological father, but my mother’s best friend. A simple worker, living in a tiny room near the river. When my mother passed away, he offered to take care of me, despite his poverty. Throughout all my years of study, he worked tirelessly, taking on debts so that I would want for nothing.
I remember one evening when I needed money for school. I was ashamed to speak to him about it. Yet he came to me, handing me a small bundle of crumpled bills that still smelled of disinfectant.
— “Your father has just given his blood,” he said softly. “Here, my son, this is for you.”
That night, I cried for a long time. Who would give their blood again and again for a child who isn’t even theirs?
The day I was accepted into university, he cried.
— “I no longer have the strength to follow,” he told me, “but you, you will go far. Just remember where you come from.”
Years went by. I worked hard, succeeded, climbed the ladder. He always refused my help, living humbly by the river, sometimes sending me a few coins “to encourage you, my son.”
I became a director, earning more than one hundred thousand pesos a month. I wanted to bring him to live near me, but he refused. “I’m used to my simple life,” he said.
One day, he came to see me. Thin, his hair almost white, his voice trembling.
— “My son… the doctor says I need an operation. It’s expensive… could you lend me a little?”
I lowered my eyes. All the memories came rushing back. And yet, I answered:
— “No. I can’t.”
He left slowly, without a word… But he had no idea of the true reason for my refusal… 👇 Discover the full story just below, in the first comment 👇👇👇👇
I shouted after him:
— “Don’t go, father!”
He stopped, hesitated for a moment, then lowered his eyes, silent. Time seemed to stand still. I fell silent in turn, letting my memories play like an old film. I remembered his hands, worn from work, his calloused fingers that had so often held mine.
I remembered his sleepless nights, when he watched over me while I studied by the flickering light of a lamp. I remembered those looks filled with pride and worry, that strange mix of strength and fragility that had shaped my childhood.
Then, gently, I took his hand, and with a trembling but resolute voice, I said:
— “I owe you nothing, father. Now it’s my turn. I will take care of you, until your last breath.”
He looked at me, eyes glistening with held-back tears, and a trembling smile appeared on his tired face. For the first time, I thought I saw in his eyes not fear of the future, but the peace of knowing he was no longer alone.
Since that day, he has lived with us. The house is filled with laughter and stories by the fireside. He tells his memories to the children, unknowingly passing on the lessons of courage and generosity that he gave me. Some evenings, we walk together along the river, and I see in his eyes the same spark he had long ago when he waited for me at the school gate.
And every time I meet that gaze, I remember that the greatest miracle is not shared blood, but chosen love—love that gives without expecting anything in return, and that, despite hardships, remains forever etched in the heart.
