Once, he collapsed at work, yet the memory of Lupita and Dalia’s bright eyes pushed him up again, teeth clenched. He never allowed them to see his weariness—he kept his smiles reserved just for them. At night, beside a faint lamp, he sounded out books—learning letter by letter so he could guide them through homework.
Whenever they fell ill, he rushed through alleys for low-cost doctors, spent his last coins on medicine—even borrowed money, just to ease their pain.
His devotion became the fire that warmed their humble corner in every trial.
Lupita and Dalia excelled, always shining at the top of their class. However poor he remained, Rodrigo repeated endlessly:
“Study, my daughters. Your future is my single dream.”
Twenty-five years later, Rodrigo was aged and fragile, his hair white as snow and his hands trembling, yet his faith in his daughters never darkened.
Then one day, resting on a simple cot, Lupita and Dalia arrived—confident women in clean pilot uniforms.
“Papa,” they said, holding his hands, “we want to take you somewhere.”
Confused, Rodrigo followed them into a car… then to the airport—the very place he once performed them through a rusty fence, saying,
“If someday you wear that uniform… it will be my greatest joy.”
And there he stood, before a giant plane, with his daughters at his side—now pilots for the national airline of Mexico.
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