The auditorium smelled of polished wood and freshly printed papers. I had spent years preparing for this moment, yet when the final applause faded, it wasn’t my achievement that caught the room’s attention, it was the man quietly sitting in the back row, leaning forward slightly, watching every word I spoke. That man was Hector Alvarez, my stepfather, the one who had built the foundation beneath my life long before I even knew what a PhD entailed.
I had never known a perfect childhood. My mother, Elena, separated from my biological father when I was very young. I barely remembered his face, only the emptiness of unanswered questions and silent rooms.
Life in the small town of Santiago Vale, surrounded by rice paddies and dusty roads, was quiet and unforgiving. Comfort was scarce, and even love was measured in the time it took to return from work or the food left on the table. When I was four, my mother remarried.
Hector arrived not with wealth or influence, but with a worn tool belt, hands hardened by cement, and a back straightened by years of labor. At first, I resented him. His hands smelled of dust and mortar, his boots always covered in grime, and his stories were of projects I could not yet understand.
But slowly, I learned the language of his love. He mended my broken bicycle, stitched the torn soles of my sandals, and rode his creaky old bike to pick me up when bullies cornered me at school. On those rides, he never lectured, never scolded.
He spoke once, softly, yet it imprinted itself on my heart:
— “You don’t have to call me father, but know that I will always be here when you need someone.”
From that day, “Dad” became a word I used without hesitation. My childhood with Hector was simple but vivid. I remember the evenings when he returned home with a dust-covered uniform and tired eyes, asking only one thing:
— “How was school today?”
He could not explain calculus or literary theory, yet he insisted I study diligently, always saying:
— “Knowledge is something no one can take from you.
It will open doors where money cannot.”
Our family had little, yet his quiet determination gave me courage. When I passed the entrance exam to Metro City University, my mother wept with joy, but Hector merely sat on the porch, puffing a cheap cigarette. The next morning, he sold his only motorbike, combined it with my mother’s savings, and arranged for my journey to the city.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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