Doña Elena lived in a humble thatched hut on the banks of the Papaloapan River in Veracruz, where the nights were filled with crickets and the murmur of the water.

At 73, she still rose before dawn to water her small garden of chilies and tomatoes and feed the few chickens she had left. Her life was simple, solitary, but steeped in memories that kept her alive.

Her husband, Don Mateo, had died decades ago, and her only son, Diego, was all she had in the world. He had been a bright, hardworking child, the pride of the entire town. When he left for Mexico City on a university scholarship, everyone said the young man would go far. He went so far that he got lost.

For ten long years, Doña Elena received only the occasional call at Christmas, and the odd deposit that she rarely touched. The rest she knew from the town gossip:

“They say Diego is a businessman now, did you know?”

“He lives in a huge house, one of those you see in magazines.”

“He drives brand-new cars, imagine!”

Doña Elena would smile and always reply the same thing:

“That’s enough for me. As long as he’s well.”

But every night, before turning off her kerosene lamp, she would take the old photograph of Diego when he was eight years old, covered in mud but smiling, and kiss it affectionately.

One day, as a light drizzle fell on the fields, a black car—a huge SUV, gleaming like an urban beast—stopped in front of the shack. Diego got out, unrecognizable: Italian suit, watch worth more than the entire orchard, and his hair perfectly styled. But his eyes…

His eyes were lifeless.

“Mama,” he said in a broken voice as he knelt before her. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have left you here. I want to take you to live with me. In my house.” It’s big, comfortable… you deserve to rest.

Doña Elena felt tears streaming down her face, unstoppable.

“Oh, son… I never asked you for anything…”

“That’s exactly why, Mama,” he said, taking her hands. “Let’s go today. Now!”

Diego insisted so much that she agreed. She packed three changes of clothes, the old photograph, and a small wooden box containing her husband’s last letters.

During the trip to Mexico City, Doña Elena stared out the window like a lost child: lights, tall buildings, constant noise… a world that seemed more alien to her than ever.

Diego’s house in Polanco was a monstrous display of luxury: eight stories, endless windows, and a foyer that looked like it belonged in a museum. But the luxury didn’t impress Doña Elena as much as the cold gaze of Mariana, her daughter-in-law.

Tall, elegant, perfectly made up… but with an expression that concealed nothing.

No joy whatsoever.