And yet, he had protected a child.
It had been helpful for someone.
That's why he never sold it.
Now, nine years later, an elegant stranger claimed that that piece belonged to her son.
The woman was named Patricia Valdés.
He was sixty-one years old and had built, together with his family, a major private company dedicated to food distribution.
The local media mentioned her from time to time because of her business activity.
I had lived with comforts that Mauritius could hardly imagine.
However, for nine years he had kept a debt that no money could pay.
His son Emiliano was missing when he was eight.
The family had attended a traditional celebration in a busy area of Guadalajara.
A moment of distraction was enough.
Emiliano disappeared among the people.
Patricia remembered the moment perfectly.
I had turned to answer a question.
When he turned his head, his son was gone.
The next minutes became hours.
They searched the streets.
Markets.
Squares.
Parking.
They spoke to authorities.
They asked merchants.
Patricia felt all that night that the world had stopped.
Emiliano showed up at dawn.
I was tired, scared and with a hurt knee.
But he was alive.
Patricia hugged him so hard that the boy started complaining.
For weeks he tried to find out exactly what had happened.
Emiliano could only explain one part.
He said a man found him near a station.
A man with a beard and a calm voice.
A man who gave him food.
A man who lent him a jacket.
A man who stayed awake while he was sleeping.
“He had cold hands,” Emiliano had said to his mother, “but he told me he was fine.
Patricia never forgot that phrase.
He looked for the stranger.
He asked.
He tried to locate him with the little information available.
He didn't make it.
