All my life, I’ve hauled anything you can imagine in my truck—cement, produce, furniture, whatever needed moving. But I never expected that one day I’d carry a story that would stay with me forever. That was the day I picked up Doña Rosario.
Imagine a mother raising her son alone: washing his clothes, cooling his fever, breaking her tortilla in half so he could have more to eat. That boy grew up, got married, had children—and then one day his wife told the old woman: “We don’t want you here anymore. You’re in the way.”
No shouting. No pleading. Just the front door standing open, her suitcases already packed. And the son—her own son—said nothing. He just stood there as if she were some stranger and not the woman who raised him.
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