The fund covered part of the surgery. Former colleagues of Mendes contributed quietly. A retired contractor sent an envelope with cash and no return address. Even the housing project from decades ago had been preserved as a case study, and its oversight committee approved a small grant, citing “moral debt.”
Hector listened as we explained, his eyes closed.
“I don’t like being helped,” he said weakly.
“I know,” I replied, gripping his hand. “You taught me that. But you also taught me that no one builds alone.”
The surgery lasted eight hours.
When Hector woke, his first words were not about pain.
“Did you finish your paper?” he asked.
I laughed through tears. “It’s accepted,” I said. “They want to turn it into a book.”
He smiled faintly. “Good. Knowledge goes further than bricks.”
Recovery was slow. Hector could no longer work construction. For weeks, he sat on the porch, watching the street like a man learning a new language. One afternoon, I found him sketching.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A ramp,” he said. “For Mrs. Donnelly down the block. She’s got trouble with stairs.”
“You can’t build anymore,” I said gently.
He tapped his temple. “I still can plan.”
Together, we turned his sketches into community projects. Accessible ramps. Safe playground repairs. Volunteer crews. I applied my academic training. He applied his wisdom.
The book was published a year later. At the launch, I dedicated it to Hector.
He stood, leaning on a cane, embarrassed by the applause.
“I didn’t teach him everything,” he said into the microphone. “I just showed him how to show up.”
Years passed.
See more on the next page
Advertisement
