In Guadalajara, there lived a young mother named Araceli, married to Rodrigo for five years. They had a 4-year-old son named Emiliano.

Lately, Rodrigo had had to go away for construction reasons, and he could only return once a week. Thus, Emiliano’s care and most of the household chores fell on Araceli’s shoulders.

His father-in-law – Don Manuel, 63, a motorcycle mechanic – was a quiet man, with a reserved character. Sometimes she took her grandson to elementary school, but rarely talked about raising the child. In Araceli’s eyes, he was a bit rough and distant.

Emiliano was going through a difficult stage: he cried almost every night, refused to sleep and was very selective when it came to eating. During the day Araceli did her best to keep up, and at night she ended up exhausted. Sometimes, she was so tired that she would burst into tears on the balcony without anyone knowing, not even her father-in-law.

That night, around 3 a.m., he felt thirsty and was about to get up, when he heard his bedroom door slowly open. Only his father-in-law and son were in the house, which made his heart race suddenly. He closed his eyes quickly, pretending to sleep.

With the dim light that came through the window, he made out the silhouette of Don Manuel. She approached slowly and carefully lifted the blanket that covered her daughter-in-law.

Araceli held his hand tightly, her heart pounding. I didn’t understand what was going to happen. But she immediately felt that something was placed on the blanket. Then, he turned around silently and closed the door gently.

She jumped up, looked down and gasped: it was a brown envelope. Inside was a wad of bills and a note written in neat handwriting:

“Araceli, yesterday I heard you crying on the balcony. I know you’re going through hard times. Don’t carry all the weight on your own. This money is for you to take care of Emiliano and also yourself. If you want to sleep a little more tomorrow, do it; I will take Emiliano to school and take care of breakfast. In addition, I spoke with Don Raúl, the neighbor, and he told me that lazy children with toothbrushing are good for superhero toothpaste. I already left it in the bathroom.”

At the end of the note, he added some “advice”:

  • Emiliano likes fire trucks. If you tell him that “the truck needs gas,” he will eat vegetables easier.
  • Before bedtime, tell him a short story. Don’t rush it; this way you will sleep more peacefully.

Each crooked line made Araceli’s eyes cloud. He remembered when, days before, Don Manuel had asked Emiliano which character he liked. He remembered the superhero-patterned toothpaste in the bathroom. She remembered those mornings when he would get up early to prepare breakfast and keep her from getting exhausted. It was all his quiet way of worrying.

As she passed in front of her room, Araceli noticed a light on. He opened the door slowly and saw him with glasses, concentrating on a book entitled: “Psychology of children from 3 to 6 years old”. Several pages were underlined in red. On one side was a notebook full of notes: “How to treat a crying child,” “How to speak without yelling.”

Don Manuel was startled when he saw her:
“Do you wake up at this hour?”

Araceli, with tears in her eyes, returned the envelope:
“Dad, I can’t accept this money. I understand what he feels. Thank you for always looking for ways to help me with Emiliano.”

He gently pushed the envelope back:
“Keep it. Consider it my contribution. Emiliano’s upbringing is the responsibility of the whole family. Maybe I couldn’t give much before, but now I can support, even if it’s with this.”

From that day on, Araceli no longer carried all the weight alone. I could sleep a little more in the mornings, while Don Manuel took Emiliano to school. In the evenings, when she was tired, he would say to her:

“Go and rest, I’ll play with Emiliano.”

Thanks to those “small gestures”, Emiliano gradually began to be more obedient and less capricious. And Araceli felt relief, perceiving in that humble house a silent but profound love: a love of a father, of a grandfather, of a family.