My parents looked at me with cold eyes and said,
“You have brought shame to this family. From today on, you are no longer our daughter.”
After that… I was kicked out of the house.
That year I was in tenth grade in a small town in the state of Jalisco. When two lines appeared on the pregnancy test, my legs shook so much I almost dropped it. I still didn’t know what to do when the news had already spread like wildfire: at school, at the market, even at church.
My parents looked at me as if I were something dirty.
“You have dishonored the family. From now on, you are no longer our daughter.”
Every word from my father was like a slap in the face.
Có thể là hình ảnh về một hoặc nhiều người và cây thùa
That night it was pouring rain. My mother threw my old backpack into the yard and pushed me out of the house like I was a stranger. I didn’t have a single peso in my pocket. I had nowhere to go.
Holding my belly, I walked away from the house that had once been the safest place in my life… and I never looked back.
I gave birth in a tiny rented room of less than eight square meters on the outskirts of Guadalajara. I had no family. No one to help me. Just the sound of the rain, the smell of dampness, and a pain that tore through my body.
It was difficult. Painful. And full of judgmental stares and whispers.
But I raised my daughter with all the strength I had. I named her Valentina.
When Valentina turned two, I took her with me to Mexico City. I worked as a waitress in a small restaurant in Iztapalapa. During the day I waited tables, and at night I studied to finish my studies.
And then, finally… fate smiled upon me.
I started selling things online: first small items, accessories, clothes, crafts. Then I opened a small shop. Then it became a brand. And later, a company.
After six years I bought a house. After ten years I had a chain of stores. After twenty years… my fortune exceeded 200 billion.
He knew he had arrived at a place that no one would have imagined in the past.
But the thorn in my heart—the pain of having been abandoned by my own parents—never disappeared.
One day I decided to return. Not to forgive them. But to show them what they had lost.
Có thể là hình ảnh về một hoặc nhiều người và tóc tết
Sitting in my new Mercedes, I returned to my hometown. The road leading to the old neighborhood was still the same, but I was no longer the same girl I used to be.
The house was still there… almost the same as twenty years ago, although more dilapidated. The iron gate was rusted. The walls were peeling. The yard was overgrown with weeds.
I stood in front of the door, took a deep breath, and knocked three times forcefully.
A young girl, about eighteen years old, opened the door.
I froze. She looked like me in a disturbing way: the same eyes, the same nose, even the same way of frowning. It was like looking at my twenty-year-old self.
“Who are you looking for?” the girl asked politely, with the typical accent of Jalisco.
Before I could answer, my parents left.
When they saw me, they froze. My mother covered her mouth, her eyes red as if she were about to cry. My father paled, his lips trembling.
I smiled coldly.
“Now you regret it, don’t you?”
But suddenly, the girl ran towards my mother, grabbed her hand tightly and said something that shook my whole world.
Part 2
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