Mike cried that day, though he blamed it on exhaust fumes.
But college was a different world. Surrounded by children of rich families with vacation homes in Vallarta, I stopped talking about Mike. When people asked about my family, I said my parents were dead.
At graduation, it got worse. Everyone boasted about their parents—judges, attorneys, politicians. Mike showed up in the only suit he owned, motorcycle boots on his feet because dress shoes hurt him.
My classmates looked at him strangely. Embarrassed, I introduced him as “a family friend.”
He didn’t argue. He just hugged me tight, said he was proud, and drove eight hours back to Guadalajara. Alone.
I got a job at a prestigious firm in Mexico City. I stopped visiting the shop. I stopped answering calls from the club. I told myself I was building a respectable life, one that would never land me back in a dumpster.
