He told me it was about eight years ago. In 1944, Mr. Mario had met a woman named Marion Roberts. She was an American actress who had come to Mexico to work on a film. They fell in love. It was an intense, passionate, real romance. But Mr. Mario was married to Valentina, and his public image couldn't be tarnished by an adultery scandal. The relationship continued in secret for almost a year. Marion became pregnant. When she told Mr. Mario, he was devastated.
He loved Marion. He wanted to be with her, he wanted to have that child, but he couldn't. His career, his image, his status as a national idol. Everything was at stake. If he divorced Valentina to marry a pregnant American woman, the press would destroy him. His career would be over, Mexico would turn its back on him. Marion returned to the United States and had the child there. It was a boy. She named him Mario Arturo, after his father. Mr. Mario sends her money every month. He pays for all the child's expenses, but he can't publicly acknowledge him.
He can't be his real father. He can only visit him secretly twice a week when Marion comes to Mexico to stay in a discreet apartment that he pays for. Rosalía told me all this in a low voice, constantly glancing toward the door to make sure no one overheard us. She said that Mrs. Valentina knew about the boy, that's why she had distanced herself so much from Mr. Mario, that's why they lived separate lives under the same roof.
But everyone kept up appearances, everyone was acting, everyone was lying. I was completely taken aback. Mr. Mario had a secret son, a son he couldn't acknowledge, a son he loved, but whom he had to hide from the world. Suddenly, everything made sense. The sadness in his eyes, the nightly crying, the melancholic music at 2 a.m. It wasn't just marital unhappiness; it was the pain of a father who couldn't be a father. In the following days, I looked at Mr. Mario with different eyes.
When he went out on Tuesdays and Fridays, I knew he was going to see his son. When he returned with a more relaxed expression, I knew he had spent precious hours simply being a father, without cameras, without the press, without lies. And when he locked himself in his study at night, I knew he was thinking about the boy growing up without being able to bear his surname. In May 1952, something happened that broke my heart. It was a Tuesday afternoon. Mr. Mario had gone out, as usual, on his secret visit.
I was in the garden watering the plants when I heard his car pull up. It was very early. He'd only been gone an hour. Something was wrong. I saw him get out of the car with a devastated expression. His eyes were red, his face pale, his movements slow, like someone in shock. He went inside without even looking at me. I heard his footsteps going up the stairs to his study. Then I heard the front door slam. Rosalía appeared in the garden a few minutes later. She asked me if I had seen Mr. Mario.
I told her yes, I had arrived, but that she looked very unwell. Rosalía came into the house looking worried. I continued with my work, but I couldn't stop thinking about that devastated expression I had seen on her face. That night, around 10, Rosalía called me to her room, closed the door, and told me what had happened. Marion had told Mr. Mario that she was going to get married. She had met a man in the United States, a good man who wanted to marry her and legally adopt the child.
Marion had decided to give her son a normal life with a present father, with a respectable surname. Mr. Mario was devastated. He understood Marion's reasons. He knew she was doing the right thing for the boy, but that didn't make the pain any less unbearable. He was going to lose his son. The boy would grow up calling another man "Dad." The boy would never know who his real father was. That night, the footsteps in the hallway were heavier than ever.
I heard Mr. Mario pacing for hours. The following weeks were terrible. Mr. Mario continued to fulfill his public commitments. He went to film shoots, interviews, and events. In public, he was the same old Cantinflas: cheerful, joking, the pride of Mexico. But at home, he was a shadow of his former self. He barely ate, barely spoke, and would lock himself in his study for days on end. I tried to help in any way I could. I prepared his favorite meals, left fresh coffee in his study, and kept the house quiet so he could have some peace, but nothing really helped.
The pain that consumed him was too deep. One night in June, around 11, I was in my room reading when I heard a strange noise. It was as if something heavy had fallen upstairs. I waited a few seconds to see if I heard anything else. Nothing. I thought maybe I had imagined the noise and went back to my reading. But a few minutes later I heard footsteps running. It was Rosalía. She knocked desperately on my door. When I opened it, her face was pale with terror.
She grabbed my arm and pulled me into the hallway. She told me she needed my help immediately, that something terrible was happening. We ran upstairs. Rosalía led me to Mr. Mario's study door. It was ajar. I peeked inside, and what I saw chilled me to the bone. Mr. Mario was lying on the floor, unconscious. Next to him was an empty whiskey bottle and an overturned pill bottle. The pills were scattered all over the floor.
Rosalía burst in, shouting his name. I froze in the doorway for a second. Then I snapped out of it. I ran to him and checked his pulse. He was alive, but his pulse was weak and irregular. He was breathing, but very shallowly. There was foam at the corners of his mouth. I yelled at Rosalía to call a doctor immediately, to say it was an emergency, but not to mention the patient's name. She ran to the phone. I stayed with Mr. Mario, trying to keep him conscious.
I spoke to him, gently patted his face, begged him not to fall asleep, to stay with me. He opened his eyes for a moment. He looked at me without really seeing me. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something. I leaned closer to listen. His voice was barely a whisper. He said, “I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of acting. Let me rest.” Those words broke my heart. I told him no, that he couldn’t leave, that there were so many people who needed him, that I loved him.
He closed his eyes. He panicked again. I called his name, shook him, but he didn't respond. Rosalía came running back. She told me the doctor was on his way, that he'd said he was a personal friend of Mr. Mario's, that he was trustworthy, that he'd arrive in 20 minutes. Twenty minutes that felt like 20 hours. We stayed with him, taking turns talking to him, trying to keep him with us. The doctor finally arrived. He was a man in his fifties, serious, professional. He assessed the situation quickly.
He asked us what he had taken. We showed him the bottle of whiskey and the bottle of pills. They were strong sedatives. The doctor worked quickly. He gave him something to induce vomiting. Mr. Mario vomited violently. It was horrible to see him like that, but it was necessary. After cleaning everything up, the doctor helped us move him to his bed. He put him on an IV, gave him an injection, and constantly monitored his vital signs. He worked for more than an hour. Finally, when Mr. Mario seemed stabilized, the doctor called Rosalía and me outside the room.
He looked at us very seriously and asked if anyone else knew what had happened. We replied that no, Mrs. Valentina was in Cuernavaca and there were no other employees in the house that night. The doctor nodded and said that was good, that what had just happened could never leave those walls, that Mr. Mario's reputation, his career, everything would be destroyed if anyone found out. The doctor explained that Mr. Mario had attempted suicide.
The pills combined with the alcohol could have killed him if we hadn't found him in time. He told us he would stay overnight watching over him, that we needed to clean the studio completely, get rid of any evidence, and act as if nothing had happened. Rosalía and I spent the next two hours cleaning the studio. We picked up all the pills from the floor, threw away the empty bottle, washed everything, aired out the room, and worked in silence. We were both devastated by what had happened. We were both aware that we had just witnessed something that could destroy the most famous man in Mexico.
The doctor stayed until dawn. At 6:00 a.m., Mr. Mario woke up. He was confused, disoriented, and embarrassed. The doctor spoke with him privately for a long time. I don't know exactly what he said, but when he left the room, the doctor instructed us to watch Mr. Mario very closely for the next few days, not to leave him alone, and to call him immediately if we noticed anything unusual. Before leaving, the doctor looked me in the eye and said something I've never forgotten.
He told me, “You have just saved the life of a man who brings joy to millions. That is a gift not many people can give, but it is also a burden. Now you know his darkest secret. You will have to carry it with you for the rest of your lives.” The following days were strange. Mr. Mario stayed in bed, claiming he had a bad case of the flu. He canceled all his filming and other commitments. Mrs. Valentina returned from Cuernavaca, but she barely went inside to see him.
Rosalía and I took turns caring for him, bringing him food, making sure he took his medicine, and that he wasn't alone. One afternoon, when I brought him lunch to his room, he asked me to sit down. I nervously obeyed. He looked at me with ashamed eyes and thanked me for saving his life. I told him he didn't have to thank me, that I had only done the right thing. Then he said something that broke my heart. He told me that that night he had reached a point where he simply couldn't keep up the act anymore.
His whole life was a constant performance. In public, he played the cheerful comedian. In his marriage, he played the contented husband. With his secret son, he played the absent father for good reasons. He was tired of acting. Tired of lying, tired of living a life that wasn't truly his own, I asked him if he had thought about his son, about how the boy would feel if he ever knew what he had tried to do. Mr. Mario's eyes filled with tears.
He told me he thought about his son all the time, that the child was the only real thing in his life, but that's precisely why it hurt so much, because he couldn't be a real father, because he had to hide, because another man was going to raise his son. We cried together that afternoon. He was in his bed, I was in the chair next to him. Two people from completely different worlds, connected by a moment of absolute human pain. When I finally got up to leave, he took my hand and made me promise something.
He made me promise never to tell what happened that night, that I would take it to my grave. I promised him, and I've kept that promise for 70 years, until today. And the reason I'm finally breaking it is because I believe the world needs to know the truth, not to destroy Cantinflas's legacy, but to humanize him, so they understand that behind Mexico's greatest comedian was a man who suffered, who cried, who was so broken that he wanted to end his life.
At the end of June 1952, Mr. Mario returned to work. He resumed filming, interviews, and public appearances. He went back to performing as Cantinflas, but things were never the same at home. I saw him differently. Now, every time I saw him smile in public, I thought of that night in his studio. Every time he made millions laugh on screen, I remembered his words: "I'm tired of acting." In July 1952, Marion married the American man. Rosalía told me that Mr. Mario received a letter from her explaining the situation, thanking him for everything, and saying goodbye.
That night, Mr. Mario locked himself in his study again. I stayed awake all night, listening, watching, terrified he would try something again, but he didn't. This time he just cried. He cried all night. I heard him through the door. They were endless hours of stifled sobs, of pain he couldn't contain. At 5:00 a.m., finally, there was silence. I peeked through the crack in the door. He was sitting in his armchair, staring out the window, his face swollen from crying so much.
The following months were a difficult adjustment. Mr. Mario tried to carry on with his life, with his career, but it was clear that a part of him had died. He no longer went out on Tuesdays and Fridays. There were no more of those secret visits that made him happy for a few hours. His son was gone from his life forever. In August, he received one last letter from Marion. Rosalía told me that in that letter, Marion sent him a photo of the boy on his first day of school.
The boy smiled in his new uniform, holding a lunchbox. Marion wrote that the boy was happy, settling well into his new life, that his stepfather treated him with love. Supposedly, that was meant to comfort him, but it only made him feel worse. One September afternoon, I found him in the garden, sitting on a bench, staring into space. I approached him and asked if he needed anything. He shook his head, but asked me to sit with him for a moment. I complied. We sat in silence for a long time.
Then he spoke. He told me about the first time he held his son. It was in a hospital in Los Angeles where Marion gave birth. He had traveled there secretly using a false name. When the nurse placed the baby in his arms, he felt something he had never felt before, a love so great it physically hurt. He knew in that moment that he would give his life for that child without hesitation. He told me about the secret visits during the following years, how he played with his son in the discreet apartment he paid for Marion, how he taught him to say "Dad," even though the boy couldn't call him that in public.
Since they celebrated birthdays in secret with small cakes and gifts the boy couldn't show anyone else because no one could know where they came from, she told me about the last time she saw her son. It was two days before Marion told her she was getting married. They played with toy cars on the floor. The boy laughed with that pure laugh only children have. She hugged him very tightly before leaving, and the boy asked her why she was hugging him so hard.
He told him it was because he loved him very much. The boy replied, “I love you too, Uncle Mario. Uncle Mario, I couldn’t call him Dad, I had to call him Uncle.” Those words broke his heart then, and they continued to break it every day. As he told me all this, tears streamed uncontrollably down his face. I cried too. There were no words of comfort I could offer. I could only be there, listening, witnessing his pain. After that conversation, Mr. Mario and I developed a different relationship.
He was no longer just my boss; he was a human being who had confided his deepest pain in me. I stopped seeing him as Cantinflas, the idol, and began to see him simply as Mario, a broken man trying to survive. In October of that year, I started noticing that Mr. Mario was doing something different. He began looking for ways to help poor children. He donated money anonymously to orphanages. He paid for surgeries for sick children. He funded school scholarships. All in secret, without publicity, without recognition.
I asked Rosalía if she knew why she did that. She explained that it was her way of coping with the pain. If she couldn't be a father to her own son, at least she could help other children. Each child she helped was like saving a piece of her son. It was her way of continuing to be a father, even if indirectly. In November 1952, something unexpected happened. Mrs. Valentina announced that she would be moving permanently to Cuernavaca. They would no longer live together.
They would maintain appearances at public events. They would appear together when necessary, but each would have their own life. An official divorce wasn't possible because of their public image, but this was the closest they could get to separation. Mr. Mario didn't fight the decision. I think deep down he was even relieved. He wouldn't have to pretend anymore, not even at home. He could be himself, at least within the privacy of his own walls. Mrs. Valentina left one December morning with several suitcases.
He said goodbye to us with distant politeness. There were no tears. No drama, just a quiet departure that marked the end of a charade that had lasted far too long. With the house empty, just Mr. Mario, Rosalía, me, and a gardener who came three times a week, the atmosphere changed completely. There was no more constant tension, no more acting. Mr. Mario relaxed a little. He started spending more time at home, talking more with us, being less of a star and more of a man.
One December evening, he asked me to make him hot chocolate and sweet bread. I took him to his study, and he invited me to sit with him. “I wanted company,” he said. We sat in silence for a while, drinking hot chocolate, gazing at the dark garden through the window. Then he asked me about my life, about my childhood, about my family, about my dreams. I told him things I had never told anyone. I told him how, as a child, I dreamed of being a teacher, how I wanted to teach the children in my village to read, but how poverty had forced me to leave school at the age of twelve.
I told him about my dad, about how he worked until his body couldn't take any more, about my mom, who washed other people's clothes with cracked, bleeding hands from scrubbing so much. He listened to everything with genuine attention. When I finished speaking, he said something that surprised me. He said that he and I were more alike than we seemed. We had both come from poverty. We had both had to sacrifice dreams out of necessity. We both carried burdens we couldn't share with the world.
The difference was that he had money and fame, but that didn't make him any freer or happier. He told me about his childhood in the Tepito neighborhood, how his family was poor, how he had to work from a very young age to help his mother. He told me that as a young man he was a shoemaker, a carpenter, a bullfighter. He tried a thousand different jobs before discovering that he could make people laugh, and when he discovered that, he turned it into a profession, but he never imagined that that profession would become a prison.
He explained to me that when you're poor and unknown, you have freedom. You can cry in public, you can be sad, you can be yourself, but when you become a national idol, you lose your freedom. You have to be what people expect you to be. You have to smile even if you're dying inside. You have to perform constantly, tirelessly, relentlessly. That night I understood something fundamental. Fame isn't a gift; it's a curse in disguise. Mr. Mario had won the love of millions, but he had lost his freedom, his privacy, his right to be human.
He was adored, but he was completely alone. In the following weeks, those nightly conversations became routine. Two or three times a week, after Rosalía went to sleep, Mr. Mario would ask me to stay with him for a while. We talked about everything: life, death, lost dreams, regrets. He told me things he had never told anyone. I listened without judgment, offering my silent company. He told me about his constant fear of being forgotten.
He said that fame was fleeting, that people were fickle, that one day they adored him and the next they could turn their backs on him. He was terrified of growing old, of no longer finding him funny, of losing his place in the heart of Mexico. In January 1953, news arrived that devastated him even further. Marion sent him a letter informing him that his son, Mario Arturo, had been officially adopted by his stepfather. The boy now bore a different surname. Legally, he was no longer Mario Moreno's son; he was another man's son.
All legal ties had been severed. Mr. Mario read that letter in his study. I was cleaning the hallway when I heard a stifled scream, then the sound of something breaking. I rushed in. He had thrown a lamp against the wall. He was standing in the middle of the study with the crumpled letter in his hand, trembling with pain and rage. I approached slowly. I took the letter from his hand before he tore it to pieces. He slumped into his armchair and wept like a child.
I knelt beside him and hugged him. It was a strange moment, a housekeeper embracing the most famous man in Mexico. But in that moment, we weren't employer and employee. We were two human beings sharing grief. When he finally calmed down, he asked me to bring him the safe he kept in the closet. I brought it, and he opened it in front of me. Inside were photos, letters, children's drawings, a lock of baby hair. They were the only mementos he had of his son.
He showed me each item, explaining its origin. This photo was from his first birthday. This drawing was made by the boy when he was four. This letter was from Marion when she told him she was pregnant. He kept all of it like priceless treasures because it was all he had left. His son was still alive somewhere in the United States, growing up, going to school, playing with friends. But for Mr. Mario, it was as if he had died. He would never see him again, never hug him again, never hear his laughter again.
The following months were especially difficult. Mr. Mario threw himself into his work as a way to escape. He filmed movie after movie, accepting every offer he received. He worked himself to exhaustion. He would arrive home late and spent, eat something quickly, and go straight to sleep. There were no more evening conversations, no more time for anything but work. In May 1953, Rosalía became seriously ill. It was a heart problem, the doctors said. She needed complete rest for several months.
Mr. Mario paid for all her treatments and told her to take all the time she needed, that her job would be waiting for her. Rosalía went to live with her sister while she recovered. That left me alone in the house with Mr. Mario. I took care of everything now: the cleaning, the cooking, the laundry, the gardening. It was hard work, but I did it willingly. I felt that my presence helped Mr. Mario in some way, even if it was just keeping his house running while he dealt with his demons.
One June night, around 11 o'clock, I heard loud knocking at the front door. It was strange. No one ever visited at that hour. I peeked out the window before opening it and saw a very pale young woman, trembling. I carefully opened the door. The woman asked for Mr. Mario. I told her I didn't receive visitors that late. She insisted it was urgent, that I should please call him, that it was a matter of life and death. Her desperation seemed genuine. I went to find Mr. Mario, who was in his study.
When I told him about the woman, his expression changed. He got up quickly and came downstairs with me. When he saw the woman in the doorway, he recognized her immediately. He ushered her in quickly, glancing back at the street to make sure no one had seen them. Then he locked the door. The woman entered the living room and collapsed on the sofa, sobbing. She was a young actress who worked at the same studio where Mr. Mario filmed. I had seen her in magazine photos.
He asked me to get him some water and then leave. I obeyed, but I couldn't help but overhear part of the conversation from the hallway. The woman was pregnant. The father was a married producer who now refused to acknowledge the baby and threatened to ruin her career if she spoke out. The actress didn't know what to do. Her family had kicked her out of the house when they found out about the pregnancy. She had no money, nowhere to live, and was completely alone.
She had come to ask Mr. Mario for help because she had heard that he was generous, that he helped people in trouble, that he was a good man. I heard Mr. Mario's voice responding calmly. He told her not to worry, that he would help her, that he would find her a place to stay during her pregnancy, that he would pay all the medical expenses, and that afterward he would help her settle down with the baby. The actress wept with gratitude, asking him why he was doing this for her when he barely knew her.
Mr. Mario's response broke my heart. He told her he did it because he understood what it was like to have a child in impossible circumstances, what it was like to be alone and scared, what it was like to desperately need help and have nowhere to turn. He told her that no one deserved to go through that alone, especially a mother with an innocent baby. That night, Mr. Mario called me into the living room after the actress left, explained the situation, and asked me to please never tell anyone what I had witnessed.
I promised to keep it a secret. He thanked me and told me that this wasn't the first time he'd helped someone in a similar situation. Over the years, he'd helped several pregnant women who had been abandoned. He'd paid for deliveries, funded homes for single mothers—all in complete secrecy. I asked him why he did it in secret, why he didn't receive public recognition for such noble actions. He smiled sadly and told me that if he made it public, people would think he was doing it for publicity, to improve his image.
Furthermore, the women he helped needed discretion. If it became known that Cantinflas was helping them, the press would hound them. Their stories would be in every newspaper, their lives would be ruined. I understood then another dimension of Mr. Mario. He wasn't just a man who suffered in silence, he was also a man who helped in silence. His generosity was as secret as his pain. The world saw only the comedian's mask, but behind it was a complex, broken, but fundamentally good human being.
In July 1953, something happened that changed my life forever. I received a telegram from my village. My father had died. A heart attack while working in the fields. He was only 52 years old. I collapsed when I read the telegram. My father, the hardest-working man I ever knew, the one who toiled himself to feed us, had died without ever having a single day of rest. Mr. Mario found me crying in the kitchen. I showed him the telegram, unable to speak.
He read it, and his expression filled with compassion. He hugged me, letting me cry on his shoulder. Then he told me to pack my things, that he would travel to Guanajuato immediately, that his driver would take me, and that I shouldn't worry about anything. He gave me money again, a lot of money. He said it was for the funeral, to help my mother, for my siblings. I told him I couldn't accept so much, that he had already helped me so much. He insisted. He told me that my father had been a hard-working man, that he deserved a dignified funeral, that my family deserved support during this difficult time.
I traveled to Guanajuato with a broken heart. The funeral was simple, but dignified. Thanks to Mr. Mario's money, we were able to give my father a decent burial, buy a nice headstone, and hold a mass. My mother, who had aged so much in recent years, wept inconsolably. My older siblings tried to be strong, but their grief was evident. I stayed with my family for two weeks. I left them most of the money Mr. Mario had given me.
That would allow them to survive for several months while my brothers found work. When I finally returned to Mexico City, I carried a new weight in my heart. My father had died without knowing rest, just like millions of poor Mexicans who worked themselves to death. When I returned home, Mr. Mario greeted me with genuine concern. He asked about my family and offered more help if I needed it. I thanked him from the bottom of my heart. I told him that thanks to his generosity, my family would be all right for a while.
He downplayed the matter as he always did, but I could see in his eyes that my gratitude touched him. Rosalía returned to work in August, recovered from her illness. The house returned to its normal routine, but something had changed in Mr. Mario. After helping the pregnant actress, he began to become more actively involved in charitable work. He created a secret fund to help film employees in need. He paid for operations, medicine, funerals—whatever was needed.
One afternoon he called me to his study. He had a proposal for me. He said he had noted my dedication, my discretion, my kindness. He offered me a different position. I would no longer be just a housekeeper; I would be his personal assistant for his charitable work. My job would be to receive requests for help, investigate each case, submit reports, coordinate payments—all in absolute secrecy. I accepted immediately. It was an opportunity to do something more meaningful, to help more people. Mr. Mario showed me how to manage the funds, how to verify that the requests were genuine, and how to deliver the aid without revealing its source.
We worked together for several hours a day reviewing cases, deciding who to help, organizing everything. It was during those months that I got to know his heart best. Every case of a child in need touched him deeply. Every single mother who asked for help reminded him of Marion. Every parent who couldn't afford medicine for their children broke his heart. He gave without limits, without conditions, without expecting anything in return. One night, while reviewing applications, we came across the case of a man whose 8-year-old son needed urgent heart surgery.
The operation cost a fortune. The man had sold everything he owned, but it wasn't enough. The boy would die without the surgery. Mr. Mario read the request silently, then closed his eyes for a long time. When he opened them, tears were streaming down his face. He told me to approve the full payment for the surgery, but that he also wanted to meet the boy. That was unusual. He normally kept his distance, helping anonymously without getting emotionally involved. But this case was different.
This boy was the same age as his son, Mario Arturo, would be. We arranged a discreet meeting. The father brought the boy to the house one afternoon. The boy was thin, pale, with enormous, innocent eyes. Mr. Mario spent two hours playing with him, making him laugh, telling him stories. The boy didn't know who this kind man playing with him really was. He only knew that he was a good person. When the father and the boy left, Mr. Mario locked himself in his study.
I heard him cry again. I understood that every child he helped was a way for him to be a father to his absent son. Every grateful child's smile healed a little of the pain of not being able to see his own son smile. In October 1953, something unexpected happened. A letter arrived from the United States. It was from Marion. Inside was a photograph. It was his son, Mario Arturo, now nine years old, in his baseball uniform. The boy had grown; he was taller, and he smiled confidently.
On the back of the photo, Marion had written, “I thought you might like to see how he’s growing up. He’s a happy boy. Thank you for giving me the freedom to give him the life he deserves.” Mr. Mario stared at that photo for hours. He placed it on his desk where he could see it while he worked. I noticed his eyes constantly drifting back to that picture. His son was happy. He was well cared for. He had a normal life. That should have comforted him, but it only made him feel the absence more keenly.
In November, we received a request for help that deeply affected us both. It was from a woman living in a remote village in Oaxaca. Her 15-year-old daughter had been raped and became pregnant. The family wanted to expel her. The village ostracized her. She wanted to take her own life. The mother was desperately pleading for help to save her daughter. Mr. Mario read the request and stood up from his desk with a determined expression. He told me that we were going to bring this young woman to Mexico City, that we would pay for all her care during the pregnancy, and that afterward we would help her start a new life.
But more importantly, I wanted the girl to know she wasn't alone, that it wasn't her fault, that she deserved to live. We traveled to Oaxaca in his personal car, without a driver, without anyone else. It was a long, silent journey. When we arrived in the village, the poverty was devastating. Adobe houses on the verge of collapse, barefoot children with bellies swollen with hunger, scrawny dogs scavenging for food in the garbage. It was like returning to the Mexico we both knew from our childhoods. The girl's name was Rosa.
She was barely 15 years old, but her eyes seemed those of someone much older. They had seen too much pain, too much horror. Her mother welcomed us into their humble home, weeping with gratitude that someone had come to help. Mr. Mario spoke to Rosa with infinite gentleness. He told her that what had happened to her was not her fault, that she shouldn't have to bear the shame of something done to her against her will. He told her that her baby was innocent and deserved to be born into an environment of love, not rejection.
He offered to take her to the capital where she could receive medical care, where she could freely decide whether to keep the baby or give it up for adoption, where she could start over. Rosa accepted through tears. We took her that same day. Her mother thanked us profusely, calling us angels from heaven. During the return trip, Rosa sat quietly in the back seat. I turned around every now and then to make sure she was alright. Her eyes gazed out the window, watching the landscape pass by, probably wondering what awaited her in her new life.
In Mexico City, we settled her in a small but comfortable house that Mr. Mario rented specifically for such cases. He had helped other women before, so he had everything organized. Rosa would have everything she needed: doctors, food, clothing, psychological support, and she would have time to decide her future without pressure. During the following months, I visited Rosa regularly to make sure she was okay. She began to open up to me. She told me about the rape, about how her attacker was a respected man in the town whom everyone defended, about how she had been blamed for provoking him.
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