Seven children raised with sacrifice, a promise that they would never abandon him, but it was all a lie. Don Justo, at 85 years old, spent his days looking at the dusty road from his old house, waiting for the return of those who swore to return. But what no one knew is that one day a stranger would appear and reveal a secret kept in a letter that would change his life forever. In the small town of Valle Verde, where the mountains hug the sky and the fields extended until they were lost in the horizon, lived Don Justo, an 85-year-old man, whose face already reflected the traces of time.

Her house, a modest aged wooden cabin, was surrounded by flowers that, despite the lack of care, still dared to bloom every spring. It was a place where silence seemed to envelop everything, only interrupted by the soft whisper of the wind passing through the trees and the distant song of the birds. Every afternoon, without fail, don Justo sat in his old wooden chair, a chair that already knew his movements, every corner of his body adapted to its structure.

There, in that corner of the world, his eyes were lost in the horizon as if he were looking for something that had not yet arrived, as if waiting had a power over him, something that kept him anchored to that same place day after day. The villagers approached him with sorrow and quietly told him that there was no hope left. They haven’t come for years, Don Justo, there’s no point in continuing to wait. However, he, without answering, continued to look at the road with a yellowish letter in his hands.

It was a letter that her eldest son, Miguel, had sent her years ago. A closed letter that Don Justo refused to open as if he feared that the content of those words could change something in his life. as if somehow I already knew what it was saying without having to read it. He kept it with almost sacred care, as if it were the only link he had left with a past that was fading little by little. In spite of the voices of the people who told him sadly that there was no hope left, Don Justo did not stop waiting.

A father’s love, a love that had endured over the years, kept clinging to the hope that one day his children would return. Every day, no matter what others thought, he would still sit in his old wooden chair, staring at the horizon, waiting for a familiar face to appear on the road. Don Justo knew that his life had been a long wait, a wait dedicated to raising and caring for his seven children. He had been a firm pillar in their lives, a man to whom their children turned for support and advice, but now perhaps they had forgotten him.

What are they doing now, he often wondered, as his mind ran over the faces of each of them, as if he could see them in front of him, even if they were memories already faded by time. His heart was filled with a mixture of love and melancholy, a deep sadness that sometimes invaded him without warning. I missed them more than words could express. Although his soul felt empty in his small house, the loneliness was not absolute.

His five cats were the only ones who provided him with some company. Although they did not speak, they seemed to understand the pain in his heart. They, in their silent presence, offered him comfort, a comfort that only the company of a faithful being can provide. They would approach him silently, rubbing against his legs or snuggling up next to him, as little reminders that he wasn’t completely alone yet. Don Justo felt that somehow his cats shared his sadness, his waiting, and in his calm gaze he found a kind of refuge.

As the sun began to descend and the sky turned orange and purple, Don Justo continued his routine. Every day was the same, but I kept looking at the road. Every afternoon she waited, even though she knew that the chances of seeing any of her children return were slim. However, that hope, although fragile, kept him there in his wooden chair with the yellowish letter in his hands. looking at the horizon as if he believed that someday, somehow, something would change.

The day began quietly in Valle Verde. The sun was slowly rising over the mountains surrounding the town, dyeing the cobblestone streets golden. In the central square, the first shadows of the morning lengthened, marking the passage of time with a slowness that seemed to embrace the place. The shops began to open and the bustle of the town gradually awoke with the soft sounds of the peasants preparing their stalls and the chatter between the neighbors who crossed the road.

Carlos, a 20-year-old young man, walked around the square with his basket of fresh products that he took to the store. He was a boy with a kind face and a curious look, known in the village for his willingness to help others. However, there was something in Don Justo’s daily routine that did not go unnoticed by him. Carlos had noticed that every time he saw the old man in the market, the amount of food he bought decreased. First it was some fruits, then bread and cheese, but lately Don Justo only bought two loaves of bread and a small bottle of milk.

The contrast with the rest of the town’s shopping did not go unnoticed and a sense of unease began to grow in him. One day, as he was passing by the store, he decided to approach Don Justo, who was standing in front of the counter, holding his little bottle of milk. The old man seemed to be deep in thought with his eyes fixed on the ground, as if life had ceased to happen around him. Carlos, with a friendly smile, approached him.

All right, Don Justo? he asked slowly, but in a voice full of concern. The old man looked up slowly, as if he had been awakened from a long sleep. For a moment, his eyes met Carlos’s and for a few seconds there was a silence that seemed to embrace the square. Then Don Justo nodded slowly. “Yes, boy, everything is fine,” Don Justo replied. “It’s just that I don’t need much anymore. My kids don’t come anymore and there’s not much to buy.

“Carlos, upon hearing those words, noticed a deep sadness in Don Justo’s eyes when he mentioned his children. He was about to say something else when his gaze stopped on the yellowish letter that the old man always carried with him. She had heard that Don Justo took her everywhere, a sealed letter, but that he himself claimed to know what she was saying, although he had never opened it. Intrigued and eager to understand more, Carlos decided to get a little closer.

He sat in front of him silently, waiting for the old man to notice. The letter was there in his wrinkled hands, but Don Justo did not seem willing to talk about it. Don Justo, Carlos said softly, “why do you always carry that letter with you?” He’s been keeping it for years. The old man, as if surprised by the weight of the question, looked up. For a few seconds, his eyes flashed with a mixture of nostalgia and pain, but he quickly lowered them looking at the letter with a melancholy sweetness.

It’s my eldest son’s, Miguel, don Justo replied in a low voice, as if he were sharing a very personal secret. He sent it to me years ago before he left. In it he promises me that he will come back for me, that he will take me to live with him, that I will not have to go through any more needs. He tells me that everything will be fine. But his voice cracked slightly. I didn’t want to open it. I want it to be a surprise, said the old man. Carlos listened silently as his thoughts began to spin.

Don Justo claimed to know the contents of the letter, but the letter was still sealed without any sign of having been opened. Confused, he asked. But Don Justo, Carlos said with an expression of sincere concern. Why not open it? If it’s something so important, maybe by reading it I can find something else, like the exact day he would return. Don Justo closed his eyes for a moment, as if his words had taken him to a distant place. Then, with a sigh, he replied, “Yes, boy, maybe you’re right.

I will open it, but today will not be the day.” Carlos, although he did not know how to help him, felt that he had to do something. Don Justo’s sadness could not be ignored. After a long silence, Carlos said to him in a soft tone, “Don Justo may not be able to fully understand what he feels, but I think that sometimes facing the truth, even if it hurts, is what gives us strength. You don’t have to do it alone. If one day you decide to read the letter, I will be here to accompany you.

You don’t have to carry all of that alone. Don Justo looked at him in silence, as if Carlos’s words had touched something inside him. He didn’t answer immediately, but his face softened slightly, as if for a brief moment he saw a light at the end of his long tunnel of waiting. Maybe, just maybe, loneliness wasn’t something I’d have to carry forever. Carlos, seeing this slight change in the old man’s face, slowly got up.

He took out of his basket some basic products, eggs, rice, sugar and handed them to him. “Here, Don Justo, it won’t be much, but tomorrow I’ll bring more,” he said with a friendly smile. Don Justo looked at him in silence and with a slight bow of his head thanked him. The next day, Carlos woke up earlier than usual. He had spent the whole night thinking about don Justo and everything he had heard. Determined to take more things to the old man’s house, he took some money from his savings and went to the village store.

However, before buying, he felt that he should understand more about Don Justo’s past, something that would give him a clearer vision of the life of this man who seemed to have dedicated his existence to waiting. Carlos thought of Don Julián, the village baker, who was almost the same age as Don Justo. If anyone could tell him more about his life, it was him. So, with a mixture of curiosity and respect, he headed towards the bakery.

The aroma of freshly baked bread greeted him as he entered. Don Julián, a gray-haired man with a face marked by the years, was in his workshop working with his hands on the dough, as he had done all his life. When Carlos approached him and asked him about Don Justo, the baker looked at him with an expression of affection in his eyes and sat down next to him. “Ah, Don Justo!” began Don Julián, stopping kneading the dough for a moment and looking at the horizon as if his memories were transporting him to another time.

Years ago, when his wife was still alive, his life was very different. He had seven children, all young, and the house was filled with laughter and noise. Don Justo’s life was happy in those days, full of love for his family. But as with everything, time passed and everything changed. Carlos looked at him in silence, fascinated and at the same time sad, while Don Julián continued. Don Justo’s wife died many years ago and that was when he assumed everything.

Not like other parents who leave or who escaped responsibility. He did not. Don Justo took care of all his children. He worked tirelessly to give them the best and they never lacked anything. He was not only their father, but also their mother. Carlos did everything. The baker sighed. His eyes clouded for a moment when he remembered, but over the years, life took his children down other paths. Miguel, the eldest, was the first to leave.

He promised that he would return. That he would not leave him alone, but he never returned. The others gradually left too, some to study, others to work outside the town. At first they sent letters telling him that everything was going well, but then they forgot. And Don Justo as always kept waiting. Carlos listened attentively seeing how the sadness on Don Julián’s face seemed to reflect the same sadness of Don Justo. “Everyone in the town knows it,” Don Julián continued. “We know that his children will not return, but Don Justo continues to wait, he continues to believe that they will.” And every time someone asks him about them, he answers the same.

They will return soon. Miguel promised it in the letter. That letter, Carlos, that yellowed letter is the only thing he has left. He keeps it like a treasure and continues to trust it. Although we all know that it will never be opened, that he will never know the truth, he continues to wait. Don Julián’s words made Carlos remain silent. Now he understood Don Justo’s life better, his sacrifices, his pains and, above all, his tireless hope. Although everything seemed to indicate that the reality was different, Don Justo clung to that letter, as if the simple fact of not opening it allowed him to keep alive a hope that time had already vanished.

Carlos said goodbye to Don Julián with a heavy feeling in his chest, but with a greater understanding of Don Justo’s loneliness. The afternoon of green valley began to fade into reddish and golden hues, as the gentle wind caressed the leaves of the trees and whispered through the dusty streets of the town. The day had been long for Carlos, full of conflicting thoughts, but also of an awakening he had not anticipated. As he walked back to Don Justo’s house, with the basket of groceries in his hands, he felt that there was something more he could do for him.

Not only to bring him food, but to offer him something else, support, company, something that would at least give him a break from that loneliness that had invaded him for so long. Carlos walked slowly, his footsteps echoing over the stones of the road, while his mind reviewed what he had learned about Don Justo. The old man had dedicated his life to his family, to an immense love that kept him tied to hope, waiting for a return that never came. How could anyone endure so much?

The question did not stop hovering in his head as he approached Don Justo’s house, the same modest and aging house that had witnessed so many years of sacrifice and waiting. When he arrived in front of the door of the little house, Carlos stopped for a moment and looked at the wooden structure, which, although simple, carried with it the weight of so many memories. The furniture inside looked old, worn and in some corners the passage of time seemed to have become more present.

But what caught his attention the most was the face of Don Justo, who appeared at the door with a smile. As always, although this time his gaze seemed more tired, more empty. “Don Justo,” Carlos said in a soft voice, “but determined, today I brought more things, but I want to do something more for you. I don’t just want to bring him food, I want to help him with his little house, make some repairs, small things that might cost me a little, but that could make a difference.” Don Justo looked at him for a moment, as if he didn’t fully understand what Carlos was offering him.

For a moment, his gaze darkened as if he were reluctant to accept help, but then, with a faint smile, he nodded. I don’t want you to bother, boy, he replied in his soft, almost inaudible voice. You don’t have to. The house is still standing, even though it is already aged, but it can still offer me shelter. Carlos, however, did not give up. he came a step closer and said firmly, “Don Justo, it’s not just about the house, it’s about your well-being, that you’re not alone, that you don’t have to carry all this alone.

What I offer you is my company, my help in whatever you need. I can’t change the past, but I can change the present. I don’t want him to stand here waiting alone.” The old man was silent for a moment, his eyes shining with a mixture of sadness and gratitude. Finally he nodded slowly. Okay, boy. If you help me, I accept it, but don’t take it the wrong way. I am a very proud man. Carlos smiled when he heard those words. It was evident that Don Justo had become accustomed to being alone, to not depending on anyone, but something in his face, something in his gaze, showed that he also needed that small gesture of humanity.

From that day on, Carlos not only brought groceries, but also began to help him with the small repairs of the house. He fixed the door that no longer closed properly. He painted some parts of the walls that time had made disappear. and above all he gave him something that Don Justo had already forgotten, company. They spent the afternoons together and although Don Justo did not speak much, his presence with Carlos gave him a silent company that relieved, even if only a little, the loneliness that had accompanied him for so long.

Little by little that loneliness began to fade. The days passed slowly until one day something in the air changed. A strange calm settled in the village as if the whole place was holding its breath. The sun, high and bright, illuminated the adobe houses and the long shadows of the morning stretched gently over the dirt streets. Carlos walked towards Don Justo’s little house, as he did every day, with the basket of groceries in his hands.

However, there was something different that morning. As he approached, Carlos noticed that Don Justo’s face, which had always shown serenity, was pale. Cold sweat covered his forehead and his body moved with difficulty. Don Justo slowly went out to the door, barely able to hold on. “Don Justo,” Carlos asked worriedly as he approached him. “I don’t feel well, boy,” Don Justo replied, his voice weak and breathy. But before I leave I want to know something. Carlos came even closer, seeing how the old man was clinging to the door with difficulty.

“I want you to read the letter to me,” Don Justo said with a look that asked for more than just words. “I’ve waited so long, but I can’t take it anymore. I need to know what Carlos says. With a heavy heart, she leaned over to the table where Don Justo kept the yellowed letter, that same letter that had been her only companion for so many years. He took it with trembling hands, feeling the weight of what he was about to do. He sat down next to the old man, opening the letter in silence.

The air seemed to have stopped as Charles read the first words of the letter in his mind. “Dear father, I will no longer be able to send you any more letters. I have found a job in another country and although I deeply regret not being able to return, I must move on. Sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner, but I don’t think I’ll come back. My siblings are busy too, and they’ve told me they don’t have time to come and see you. Carlos felt a lump in his throat. What I was reading was not what don Justo had believed all these years.

The letter was not a promise of return, but a farewell. A goodbye that Don Justo had never fully understood. As Carlos struggled to find a way to tell her the truth, his mind and heart were divided. Should he tell her the truth and risk his health getting even worse? Or lie to him? To give him one last spark of hope, even if it was false. With a sigh, Carlos made a decision. he began to read aloud, adapting the words to what Don Justo wanted to hear.

His voice trembled a little as he made up a story, but he kept going, creating a lie that was kinder than the truth. Don Justo, the letter says that Miguel Miguel is having some problems with his work, but that he will be back soon. He apologizes for not being able to come sooner, but promises that he will be here to see you very soon. Don Justo, upon hearing those words, was enlightened. His face, marked by old age and illness, softened instantly. He closed his eyes with a smile, as if hope had finally filled his heart.

I knew it, boy,” he murmured in a trembling but confident voice. “I knew it. I always said that my children would return one by one. No one believed me, but I knew they would come back.” Then he slowly rose from his chair with the open letter in his hands. He went out into the village dragging his feet, but with renewed determination. And one by one he showed the letter to the neighbors, enthusiastically sharing his certainty that his son would come to visit him. True, he told them with a mixture of emotion and confidence, “My son will come.” This is what he says in the letter.

Carlos, watching from afar, couldn’t help but feel a mixture of relief and sadness. He had done what he thought was best at the time, but he didn’t know if he had done the right thing. The lie, although it gave Don Justo peace, also left him with the weight of a hidden truth. The days passed slowly, like the leaves that fall calmly to the ground in autumn. Don Justo, although his health continued to deteriorate, was happier. Every day, when he left his house, he would show the open letter to anyone who would see it, repeating over and over again the same words: “Miguel will be coming soon.

“He said it. No one in the village had the heart to deny it, so everyone settled for that little lie that kept him at peace. Carlos, however, couldn’t help but feel guilty. Despite his misgivings, there was something about the way don Justo looked at him that told him that he had done the right thing. And in the meantime, the community began to come together in a way that had never happened before. Carlos, who had told the neighbors the truth, asked them not to tell Don Justo what had really happened to his son.

He knew the truth would be too hard for him and he feared his health would be affected even more if he found out. The neighbors, sad by the reality, accepted. Don Julián, the baker, Doña Elena, the neighbor and other members of the community began to go to Don Justo’s house every day. They brought him food, helped with house repairs, and most of all, provided him with what he needed most. company. For the first time in years, Don Justo did not feel completely alone.

The community surrounded him not with pity, but with genuine affection, wishing that he could feel that even though his children did not return, his life still had value. Carlos, seeing the change in the old man, realized that sometimes the love and solidarity of others are more powerful than any lie. no matter how small. And although the truth was still kept, what mattered was the well-being of Don Justo. At that moment, the morning air, fresh and soft, ran through the streets of Valle Verde, announcing a new day that, however, would not be like the others.

The sun, which always seemed to shine brightly on the town, today peeked timidly, as if he too were respecting the painful moment that was approaching. Don Justo’s little house, which had so often been a refuge of hope, was quieter than ever. The neighbors who used to visit him every day noticed the absence of his figure on the road and everyone knew that the time left was very short. Don Justo’s health, as fragile as the walls that surrounded him, could no longer sustain him.

Carlos, who had been his constant companion, felt the weight of each step as he approached Don Justo’s house. It had been there for him for so long, helping him heal not only his body, but also his soul. Now it was he who must be strong, not only for himself, but for the man who had regarded him as his own son. The village, though small, was full of life and solidarity, but today it seemed bleaker, as if everyone was suspended in silent waiting.

When he arrived at the door of the house, Carlos found Don Justo lying on his bed, his body weak, almost motionless. His face, although it still reflected something of that serenity that had always characterized him, showed the signs of a deep tiredness. Don Justo’s eyes shone with a light that Carlos recognized immediately. It was the peace that can only come when you have lived fully, when you have left everything you had. Don Justo raised his hand with effort, drawing the attention of Carlos, who quickly approached.

As he took his hand, the old man smiled at him, but that smile was different from all the previous ones. It was a smile of gratitude, of acceptance, of farewell. Carlos, Don Justo said in a weak but clear voice, thank you for everything. You have cared for me like a son. You can’t imagine what you’ve done for me. I could never thank you as I should. Carlos felt a lump in his throat and although the words tried to come out, he could not utter any. Instead of speaking, he gently squeezed don Justo’s hand, showing him that he was not alone at that moment.

“I love you, boy,” Don Justo continued with a serene smile. And although my children never returned, I found what I needed most, a son, a family and the love of this people. With a last breath, Don Justo closed his eyes and although Carlos tried to stop the tears, he knew that his dear friend’s life was coming to an end. The farewell was inevitable, but the pain was not as great as the comfort Carlos felt for having given him everything he could.

Don Justo’s tranquility, although profound, was also the reflection of the love he had received in his last days. Carlos remained by his side, holding his hand until don Justo’s breathing stopped, leaving a void in the air that only the community that had surrounded him could fill. In the end, Don Justo did not die alone. He was embraced by the affection of everyone, especially by Carlos, who never let his heart harden in the face of the loneliness of the old man.

Don Justo’s story is a moving tale of sacrifice, abandonment, and the tireless search for hope. Despite having given everything for his children, he was forgotten by them. However, thanks to a young man named Carlos and the solidarity of the community, Don Justo’s life takes an unexpected turn and he was able to live his last days happily. This story reflects the power of community and the positive impact that a small act of kindness can have on the life of someone who has lost everything.

Although Don Justo never saw his children return, he found in others what he had been waiting for all his life. love, care and a sense of belonging that accompanied him until the last moment.