His hands were wrinkled and his steps were slow, but his gaze remained the same: calm, warm, full of a patience he had learned during decades of sacrifice.
The old house didn’t look as big as it used to.
The cribs had disappeared many years ago.
The corridors that once resounded with small steps were now filled with photographs.
Nine girls.
Nine smiles.
Nine lives.
That spring morning, Ricardo was sitting in his favorite chair by the window. Outside, the wind gently moved the garden trees that he had planted himself when the girls were little.
On the table I had an old wooden box.
Inside he kept memories: children’s drawings, letters, small colored ties that had once decorated tiny braids.
He took a picture.
In it appeared he, much younger, surrounded by nine girls who barely knew how to walk.
He remembered the first few years.
The days when I barely had the money to feed everyone.
The cruel comments of the neighbors.
The looks of doubt at school.
“That man won’t be able to raise them,” some said.
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