a Canal in Mexico City, had found him in a plastic basin, floating at the edge of a ditch after a storm.
The little boy could neither speak nor walk. He cried incessantly until he lost his voice.
On his wrist, there was only one thing: an old, frayed, braided red bracelet and a damp piece of paper on which one could barely read: « Please, let someone kind take care of this boy. His name is Iktan. »
Don Eusebio had nothing: no house, no money, no family. He had only tired legs and a heart that still knew how to love. Despite everything, he carried the boy and raised him with what little he could find: stale bread, donated soup, recycled bottles.
He always told Iktan: « When you grow up, and if one day you find your mother again… forgive her. No one abandons their child without having a broken heart. »
Iktan grew up amidst street stalls, open-air markets, and cold nights under the bridge. He never knew what his mother looked like. Don Eusebio only told him that when he found her, the paper was stained with lipstick and a long hair was tangled in the bracelet. He thought his mother was very young… perhaps too young to raise a child.
One day, Don Eusebio fell seriously ill with a lung ailment and was taken to the public hospital. Penniless, Iktan had to beg for food more than ever.
That afternoon, he heard that the biggest wedding of the year was taking place in a sumptuous villa in Polanco. With an empty stomach and a dry throat, he decided to try his luck.
He stood shyly near the entrance. The tables were overflowing with food: mole, carnitas, sweet bread, cold sodas. A kitchen boy saw him, took pity on him, and handed him a hot plate. « Sit there and eat quickly, my boy. Be careful that no one sees you. »
Iktan thanked her and began to eat, glancing inside. The mariachi music, the elegant suits, the shimmering dresses. He thought silently, « Does my mother live in a place like this… or is she poor like me? »
Then, the master of ceremonies’ voice rang out: —Here with you is… the bride!
The music changed. All eyes turned towards the staircase adorned with white flowers. And there she appeared. Dressed in an immaculate white gown, a serene smile on her lips, her long black hair rippled in soft waves. Beautiful, radiant.
But Iktan froze. It wasn’t her beauty that paralyzed him… but the red bracelet on the bride’s wrist. It was identical. The same wool. The same color. The same worn knot.
Iktan rubbed his eyes. He stood up abruptly and walked towards the stage, trembling. « Madame… » he said in a broken voice, « this bracelet… you… you are my mother? »
An absolute silence fell over the room. The music continued to play, but no one breathed. The bride stopped. She looked at her wrist. Then she looked at the boy. And she saw his eyes. The same ones.
Her legs gave way. She knelt before him. « What is your name? » she asked, trembling. « Iktan… I am Iktan… » the boy replied, weeping.
The microphone fell to the ground. Murmurs arose: « Is that his son? » « Really? » « How is that possible? »
The groom, an elegant and serene man, approached. « What’s going on? » he asked in a low voice.
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