Then my mother lifted the box.
—Antonio… why didn’t you ever say anything?
The uncle sighed deeply.
Her eyes filled with sadness.
—Because your husband asked me not to.
He remained silent for a moment before continuing.
—Miguel made me promise that I would only give them the box if they really needed it.
He looked at our worn clothes.
The old bag of rice.
And finally, he lowered his gaze.
—Today I knew that moment had arrived.
My mother started crying again.
But this time it wasn’t a cry of despair.
It was a cry filled with gratitude.
—Thank you, Antonio —she said through tears.
The uncle shook his head.
—Don’t thank me.
He raised his eyes to the reddish sky.
—Thank Miguel.
That night was unlike any other night she could remember.
My mother cooked white rice.
Real rice.
The aroma filled the house.
My sisters looked at the pot as if it were a treasure.
When we sat down at the table, nobody spoke.
All we could hear was the sound of the spoons.
It was a simple meal.
But for us it was a banquet.
Before eating, my mother said in a low voice:
—This is thanks to your father.
And we all observed a moment of silence.
After that night, many things began to change.
With some of the money, my mother bought a small used sewing machine.
She had always known how to sew, but she had never had her own machine.
She started by mending clothes for the neighbors.
Then they started bringing him more orders.
School uniforms.
Dresses.
Curtains.
Little by little, the small room in our house became a sewing workshop.
I helped out after school.
My sisters folded the fabric and delivered the orders.
Uncle Antonio also started visiting us more often.
She was bringing fruit from the market.
Sometimes bread.
Or he would just come to sit and chat.
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