My name is Lina. I’m twenty years old, a senior majoring in design, and people often tell me I seem older than my age.
Maybe it’s because I grew up with just my mother—strong, resilient, and unwavering. My father passed away early, and she never remarried. She worked endlessly to raise me on her own.
During a volunteer program in Guadalajara, I met Santiago, the logistics coordinator. He was more than twenty years my senior—gentle, calm, and someone whose words carried a depth I wasn’t used to. At first, I simply respected him as a colleague, but gradually, my heartbeat changed whenever I heard him speak.
Santiago had endured his own storms. He had a steady career, a broken marriage behind him, and no children. He rarely talked about his past, only saying,
“I lost something precious. Now I just want to live honestly.”
Our relationship unfolded slowly—quiet, genuine, without chaos. He treated me with patience and tenderness, as if I were something delicate he wanted to protect. People whispered, wondering why a twenty-year-old girl would fall for a man two decades older, but I didn’t care. With him, I felt safe.
One day, he told me,
“I want to meet your mother. I don’t want us to hide anymore.”
My stomach tightened. My mother was strict and cautious, but I believed that if our love was real, I shouldn’t be afraid.
So I brought him home. Santiago wore a white shirt and held a bouquet of marigolds—the flowers I’d mentioned were my mother’s favorite. I held his hand as we walked through the old gate of our house in Tlaquepaque. My mother was watering her plants when she saw us.
She froze.
Before I could say anything, she rushed toward him, threw her arms around him, and burst into tears.
“Oh my God… it’s you!” she cried. “Santiago!”
The air felt heavy. I stood still, completely lost. My mother clung to him, trembling, while Santiago stared at her in disbelief.
“Are you… Thalía?” he whispered, voice shaking.
My mother lifted her face, nodding desperately.
“Yes… it’s really you. After more than twenty years… you’re alive, you’re here!”
My heart began pounding violently.
“Mom… you know Santiago?”
They both turned to look at me. For a moment, neither spoke. Then my mother wiped her tears and sat down.
“Lina… there is something I must tell you. When I was young, I loved a man named Santiago… and he is that man.”
My chest tightened. Santiago’s face had turned pale. My mother continued, her voice unsteady:
“When I was studying at a technical school in Guadalajara, he had just graduated. We were deeply in love, but my grandparents didn’t approve. They said he had no future. And then… Santiago had an acc:ident, and I lost all contact. I thought he had d:ied…”
Santiago exhaled, his hands shaking.
“I never forgot you, Thalía. When I woke up in the hospital, I was far away and had no way to reach you. When I finally returned, I heard you already had a daughter… and I didn’t dare interfere.”
My vision blurred. Every word felt like a blow.
“So… my daughter…” I whispered.
My mother turned to me, voice cracking:
“Lina… you are Santiago’s daughter.”
The world went silent. Outside, the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees. Santiago stepped back, eyes red, arms limp at his sides.
“No… this can’t be…” he murmured. “I didn’t know…”
Everything inside me shattered. The man I loved—the one I believed was meant for me—was my father.
My mother pulled me close, sobbing.
“I’m so sorry… I never imagined…”
I said nothing. My tears spoke for me—bitter, heavy, impossible to stop.
We sat together for a long time that day. It was no longer a moment to introduce a boyfriend, but a reunion of souls separated for more than two decades.
And I… a daughter who found her father and lost her first love in the same moment… could only sit in silence as the tears kept falling.