The day my brother got out of prison, the whole family turned their backs on him, including my mother, my older brother and my two sisters. When I no longer had anywhere to go, only I and my two sons opened the door, despite my wife’s visible discomfort when she saw him appear in the house. I got him work as my personal driver… Until one day my business fell apart, and he quietly took my wife and me to a place that paralyzed me. At that very moment, my wife felt ashamed of her own conscience, and I understood that, in this life, family will always be the most important thing.
My name is Diego Ramírez, I was born and raised in an old working class neighborhood of Guadalajara, Jalisco. The streets around my house were always covered in dust, the walls of the houses faded by the sun, and the canteen’s ranch music on the corner used to sound well into the night.
My family was never rich, but at least we lived with some warmth, until everything fell apart.
My older brother, Esteban Ramirez, had been for me for eight years. When I was a child, I saw it as an indestructible wall. He would carry me on his back to cross the rain-flooded alleys, give up his tortilla portion to give it to me, and even fight with older boys just because they mocked my worn-out shirt.
But life in the slums of Guadalajara was never easy for an impulsive boy who had to grow up too soon.
When Stephen was twenty-seven, after a night of drunkenness and a fight in a road bar, he seriously injured a man. As a result, he was sentenced to prison.
The day the police took him, my mother collapsed at the entrance of the house, with her hands on her head. My father, a proud man to the core, struck the table hard and said in teeth:
“As of today, I don’t have a son like him.
My older brother, Thomas, stood by, with a freezing look, as if Stephen were a stain that had to be erased. My two sisters, Lucia and Mariela, only denied with their heads, full of contempt, sighing again and again because “the honor of the family had been stained.”
And I, back then, just stood still in a corner, watching the vehicle carrying the inmates disappear when I turned the corner.
Seven years later, my father died of a stroke.
Three years later, my mother also began to weaken from diabetes and heart complications. But, curiously, although he had said the cruelest words against Stephen, he kept in a drawer an old photograph of him from when he was young.
At the turn of fifteen, Stephen was released from prison.
The whole family knew beforehand. But no one wanted to go pick it up.
That night, during dinner at my mother’s house, Thomas left the plate on the table and said coldly:
“Whoever wants to mess with him, let him get in. But I’m not going to let someone like that set foot in my house.
Lucia twisted her mouth with disdain:
“People like him get out of jail and they’re still the same.
Mariela, while sipping her pot coffee, added indifferently:
“It’s best to fix them alone. The house that receives it will only attract misfortune.
My mother remained silent for a long time. Then he asked in a tired voice:
“So where are you supposed to go?”
No one answered.
I looked around the table. People who shared the same blood with Stephen talked about abandoning it as if it were a broken object.
Then I said:
“Click here to read the full story”.
