“I never told him,” I admitted. “I didn’t know how.”
Hector cleared his throat. “I didn’t need to know,” he said. “I just needed you to do your best.”
Mendes nodded. “That’s exactly what he told me, too.”
The moment could have ended there, neat and meaningful. But life, I would learn, rarely allows endings without another turn.
Three weeks later, Hector collapsed at a construction site.
The call came while I was revising my dissertation for publication. My mother’s voice was thin, stretched tight with fear.
“He fainted,” she said. “They’re taking him to Mercy General.”
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and old coffee. Hector lay in a narrow bed, his face pale, hands still rough even against white sheets. The doctor spoke gently, using words that felt too clinical for the man I knew.
Advanced spinal degeneration. Internal bleeding. Years of untreated strain.
“He needs surgery,” the doctor said. “Soon. It’s risky. And expensive.”
Insurance covered little. Savings were almost nonexistent.
That night, my mother cried herself to sleep in a chair beside his bed. I sat alone in the hallway, staring at the floor, feeling the old helplessness of childhood return like a tide.
The next morning, my phone rang.
It was Professor Mendes.
“I heard,” he said without preamble. “Word travels fast when people care.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“I’m calling,” he continued, “because the university has a discretionary fund. It’s rarely used. But this is… personal.”
I protested. Pride flared. Hector would never accept charity.
Mendes interrupted me gently. “This isn’t charity. This is repayment. And it’s long overdue.”
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