I hold a master’s degree in Finance from UNAM and currently work as an Investment Director for a foreign firm in Mexico City. I make around 500,000 pesos a month — about $30,000 USD.

To my friends and colleagues, I’m the picture of success: highly educated, financially stable, living in my own apartment, driving a luxury SUV.
But behind that image, few know that my childhood wasn’t marked by a lack of money — it was marked by a lack of affection.

When I was ten, my biological mother died of cancer.
I still remember sitting in a corner at her funeral, whispering to myself, “Why my mom?”

A few years later, my father remarried a woman named Ángela.
I hated her from the start — not because she was bad, but because she wasn’t my mother.
I refused to eat her cooking and sometimes even yelled:

“Don’t cook for me. You’re not my mom.”

But she never scolded me.
She would quietly clean up, cook something else, and later leave small notes in my backpack:

“It’s cold today — don’t forget your sweater.”
“I made your favorite enchiladas.”

I never replied, but those tiny pieces of paper became the only warmth in that cold house.

When I was in high school, tragedy struck again — my father died in a car accident on the Mexico–Puebla highway.
I thought I’d be sent to live with relatives, but I wasn’t.
It was Ángela — the woman I had refused to call “mom” — who stayed by my side.

Standing before my father’s altar, with tears in her eyes, she told me,

“Arturo, don’t worry. We don’t share blood, but I’ll take care of you until the end.”

That day, I broke down crying — and for the first time, I called her Mom.

From that moment, she carried everything on her shoulders.
When I got into UNAM, she hugged me and cried with joy.
When I earned a scholarship to study in England, she sold the only gold bracelet my father had given her — just to buy me my first laptop.

Once, I asked her why she loved me so much, even though I wasn’t her biological son.
She smiled and said,

“I loved your father. And you’re the most beautiful thing he left me.”

That sentence stayed with me forever.

Now that I’m stable and successful, I thank life every day for giving me my stepmother.
But one evening, while we were having dinner, she looked at me and said softly:

“Arturo, you’re thirty now. Maybe it’s time to think about getting married.”

I laughed.

“Sure, Mom. If you find someone good, introduce me.”

She smiled knowingly.

“Actually… I think I already have. Do you remember Miriam — the Hernándezs’ daughter, three houses down?”

I froze.
Miriam was two years older than me. We used to play together as kids back in our Guadalajara neighborhood.
She had married young, but her husband died in an accident before their son even turned three.
I remembered the cruel gossip — “bad luck,” “black widow.”
Unable to bear her late husband’s family’s contempt, Miriam moved back in with her parents and opened a small grocery shop to raise her son.

I protested,

“Mom, I have a degree, a career, opportunities… why would you want me with a widow who already has a child?”

She looked at me calmly.

“Because you need someone who values family more than appearances. Miriam is kind, hard-working, and her son is a good boy. That humble home is worth more than a thousand luxuries.”

I spent a week thinking about it.
Then, when I visited Guadalajara, I stopped by her little store, pretending to buy something.

Miriam hadn’t changed much — simple, graceful, but with a quiet sadness in her eyes.
Her son, Ángel, was in the corner drawing with crayons.
When he saw me, he smiled shyly and said,

“Good afternoon, sir.”

Something stirred inside me.

We sat down to talk. I spoke honestly:

“My mom wants me to marry you… but I don’t want to do it out of obligation.”

She looked surprised, then smiled gently.

“Ángela always joked that I should marry you. I never thought she meant it. But I don’t need anyone’s pity. I live for my son — I don’t need to be rescued.”

Her words struck me deeply.

Back in the city, I couldn’t get her out of my mind.
Between meetings and business lunches, I realized what I truly lacked — peace.
The kind of peace that comes from simple, honest people like Miriam and her boy.

A month later, I texted her.
We started talking more often — about Ángel’s school, her shop, my job.
And I understood: with her, I didn’t need to pretend.
She didn’t care about my salary, my position, or my car. She cared about me.

Six months later, I returned to Guadalajara.
I walked into her store again — this time with no excuses.
I looked her in the eyes and said,

“Miriam, would you give me a chance? Not because my mom wants it… but because I do. I want to build a home with you and Ángel.”

She was silent for a moment, then smiled softly and nodded.

Our wedding was small — an old church in downtown Guadalajara, surrounded by family and a few close friends.
No luxury, no glitter, just love.

When I took Miriam’s hand at the altar, my mother, Ángela, stood nearby with tears in her eyes, hands trembling over her chest as if praying for our happiness.

I leaned toward her and whispered,

“Thank you, Mom… for giving me a complete family.”

Now I finally understand — my stepmother didn’t want a perfect wife for me; she wanted a real one.
A woman who knew pain, loss, and the value of small joys.

With Miriam and Ángel, I didn’t just find a home —
I found myself.