The rain fell with a gray and persistent fury on Valparaíso, the port that never sleeps completely. The wet asphalt reflected the lights of my black car, a luxury vehicle that felt strangely out of place as I slowly descended the main street of my childhood. Inside, I, Mateo Andrade, dressed in a dark suit that cost more than my father earned in a year, looked out the window with an understated smile, a mixture of nostalgia and the anticipation of a well-planned surprise.

He hadn’t been back in years. He felt his heart racing at every corner, recognizing the faded mural, the corner store that was now a pharmacy, the smell of freshly baked bread escaping from don José’s bakery. It was as if time had stopped here, between the simple houses and the smell of home that emanated from each window. The raindrops hit the windshield with a melody that brought back memories, echoes of a life that felt both mine and someone else’s.

He remembered those afternoons running barefoot through these same streets, with no other concern than to get home before dark. I remembered my mother’s sweet voice calling out to me from the window: “Matthew, come in before you get sick!” And my father, always serious but with immense love in his eyes, waiting for me at the door with a clean towel to dry my wet hair.

But what I saw when I turned the last bend, the one that led to the house of my life, made my world stop. Two old men, completely soaked, were on the sidewalk, trying to take shelter under a leaky plastic tarp, tied to an old wall. The icy wind was pounding hard and the water was running down their faces as if they were part of the storm. Their clothes were stuck to their frail bodies, and they trembled in a way that split my soul in two.

I braked the car suddenly, so abruptly that the tires squealed against the wet asphalt. I left without even turning off the engine, without closing the door, not caring that the rain soaked my designer suit in a second.

“Dad! Mum! I shouted, running toward them, my expensive leather shoes splashing in the puddles that had formed on the uneven sidewalk.

The woman raised her face slowly, as if every movement cost her superhuman effort. It was her. It was Doña Clara, my mother. Her white hair was stuck to her wrinkled forehead, her eyes filled with tears that mixed with the rain. Her lips were trembling, she didn’t know if it was from the cold or from the excitement of seeing her only son after so long. At her side, Don Antonio, my father, hunched over by the years and by a pain that went beyond the physical, with his hands visibly trembling, tried to protect his wife with his own body, using his threadbare jacket as a useless shield against the storm.

“My God, what are they doing out here?” I asked, unable to understand anything. My voice cracked with disbelief and horror at what I was seeing. My parents, the people who had given me everything, who had sacrificed even what they didn’t have for me, were there, like paupers, as if they had no one in the world.

My mother looked at me, weeping, her eyes reflecting a mixture of pure joy at seeing me and deep shame at the state I found her in. “Mateo, my son… you’re back…” Her voice was barely a whisper, weak and weary. “Of course I’m back, Mom,” I replied, feeling a lump in my throat that threatened to choke me. “But why are you here, in the rain? Where’s the house? What happened to the house I bought for you?”

My father lowered his head, ashamed, unable to meet my gaze. Tears streamed down his cheeks, weathered by the sun and a lifetime of hard work. “We don’t live here anymore, son,” he finally said. Each word seemed to weigh on him like a stone.

I took a step back, confused, feeling like the world was tumbling beneath my feet. “What do you mean you don’t live here anymore? This house is yours. I bought it. I signed the papers, did everything legally. How is it possible that it’s no longer yours?”

My mother began to sob harder, her small body jerking with spasms of crying. “No, my son. They said it wasn’t ours anymore. They kicked us out. Some men came with papers, documents we didn’t understand. They said we had to leave, that we no longer had the right to be here.”

The rain seemed to fall harder with every word, as if the sky itself were weeping for the injustice I was witnessing. I looked around, my heart pounding, beating so loudly I could feel it in my ears. That house where I had grown up, where I had taken my first steps, where my mother had taught me to tie my shoes and my father had taught me to be a good man, was now empty. Locked with a shiny new padlock, its windows boarded up, as if it had been abandoned for years.

I had no idea what was happening. My mind tried to process the information, but it seemed impossible. But what I would discover later, what would be revealed in the coming hours and days, would change everything. It would change my perspective on life, on the people I trusted, on what success and family truly meant. And it would force me to confront the most painful truth of all: that while I was conquering the world, I had allowed the person closest to me to destroy my parents’ world.

Before I was the man in a suit, before the multimillion-dollar companies, the luxury car, and the penthouse that occupied the entire top floor of a building in Santiago, I was just Mateo, a boy who ran barefoot through the dirt streets of Valparaíso. The house where I grew up was simple, so simple that some might call it poor. The peeling walls revealed layers of paint from decades past, but the smell of fresh coffee and freshly baked bread filled every corner every morning.

My father, Don Antonio, was a man of unwavering principles. He would wake up at four in the morning, even on Sundays, just to maintain discipline. He worked in construction, building houses for others, houses he could never afford. His hands were calloused, each scar telling a story of sacrifice. My mother, Doña Clara, always in her flowered apron, sewed clothes for the neighborhood on her old sewing machine, whose rhythmic hum was the soundtrack of my childhood.

We never had much. There were nights when dinner was just bread and tea. There were winters when the cold seeped in through the cracks in the windows. But we had enough. We had love, a love that showed itself in small gestures: my father always giving me the biggest portion of food, my mother staying up late to finish my school uniform by candlelight.

One day, when I was ten, I came home from school feeling ashamed. “Dad,” I said, my voice trembling, “the teacher asked what you do, and I was too embarrassed to say you’re a bricklayer.” The other children laughed. Don Antonio took off his worn hat and looked at me with those deep eyes that seemed to see right through me. “My son,” he said in a calm but firm voice, “never be ashamed of honest work. Shame is stealing, lying, living dishonestly. Bricks and lime build houses, but a house built on lies always collapses.” My mother came out of the kitchen, knelt in front of me, and, with tears in her eyes, added, “A man’s worth isn’t in the money he has, but in the heart he carries. Your father is the richest man I know in everything that truly matters.”

Those words remained etched in my heart for years, until, slowly, the outside world began to speak louder. When I received a scholarship to study engineering in Santiago, my parents did the unthinkable. My father sold his bicycle, his only means of transportation. My mother sold her sewing machine, her livelihood. With that money and the help of our neighbors, they bought me a new suitcase and saw me off at the bus terminal.

“Don’t forget where you come from, my child,” my mother wept. “Promise me.” “Never, Mother, I promise,” I replied, my eyes filled with tears. “I will return, I will study, and I will give you everything you never had.”

My father, barely containing his emotion, placed his heavy hand on my shoulder. “Conquer the world, son. But remember, conquering the world is pointless if you lose your soul in the process.”

The years flew by. I graduated with honors, founded my own company, Andrade Tech, and success came at a dizzying pace. The poor kid from Valparaíso became the “tech prodigy,” the “Chilean Steve Jobs.” I lived in a luxury penthouse, had chauffeurs and a team of assistants. And by my side was Carla.

I met her at a conference. She was beautiful, elegant, and brilliant. With an MBA from a European university, she understood finance and strategy like no one else. She became my partner, my wife, my everything. At first, I thought she was the balance I needed. She organized my life with military efficiency, managed my image, and pushed me to always reach higher. Grateful and exhausted, I gradually ceded more and more control to her.

Little by little, so gradually that I didn’t even notice, Carla began to isolate me. First from old friends, then, subtly, from my family. Visits to Valparaíso became increasingly rare, always with the excuse of an important meeting, a business trip, a crucial launch. The phone calls were the same. My mother called religiously every Sunday, but Carla always answered.

“Ah, Doña Clara!” she would say in a polite but cold voice. “Mateo is in a very important meeting right now. I’ll give him the message.” And she never gave me the message. Never.

Meanwhile, my mother waited by the phone, her heart breaking a little more each week. I, 400 kilometers away, lived in a whirlwind of work, meetings, and lavish parties, sincerely believing that my success was the greatest gift I could give them. Little did I know they would have traded every million in my account for a single phone call.

Carla grew bolder. She began to poison my perception of them. “Honey,” she said in a worried tone, “your parents only call when they need something. They don’t ask directly, but they always mention that the house needs repairs, that the medications are expensive. It’s emotional manipulation. They distract you, they hold you back.”

Tired, overwhelmed by the pressure, I started to believe him. I stopped trying to call. Sundays became just another workday.

One weekend, Carla suggested selling the house in Valparaíso. “It’s just two elderly people in a three-bedroom house. It’s an unproductive asset. We could invest the money. You have to think like a businessman, not a sentimental kid.” I felt a pang of discomfort, but I was too exhausted to argue. “Maybe you’re right,” I said. And in saying it, I opened a door I should never have opened.

One Sunday afternoon, my mother called, as usual. Carla answered, as usual. “Tell him we miss him,” my mother pleaded. “Tell him his father finally fixed the gate he broke as a child. Tell him the cherry tree we planted when he was born bore fruit this year, and I saved some jam for him. Tell him we love him.” Carla hung up and said nothing to me. That same week, she received a letter from my mother, a letter written in shaky handwriting, begging for a call, a sign that she was still important in my life. Carla read it, tore it to pieces, and threw it in the trash. And then, she made her final decision.

The plan was cold and calculated. Using a power of attorney I had blindly signed years before to manage my assets, he transferred ownership of my parents’ house to his own name. A few weeks later, he drove to Valparaíso.

“Mateo has decided it’s best for you to be in a nursing home,” he told them, without a trace of emotion. “This house brings back bad memories of poverty and is affecting his image. It’s a business decision. He agrees, but he doesn’t want to be bothered about it.”

My heartbroken parents couldn’t believe it. They begged her, pleaded with her to speak to me. “It’s not necessary,” she replied. “She’s already given the order.”

The next day, he sent some lawyers and security guards. They evicted them from their own home with nothing but the clothes on their backs. For two months, my parents lived on the streets, sleeping in neighbors’ yards, eating charity, and on rainy nights, huddled against the wall of the house I had given them, the house that now had a padlock on the gate my father had just fixed.

On the night of my parents’ anniversary, an epiphany struck me while I was working late. I saw the date on an old calendar and a wave of guilt washed over me. I decided to surprise them with a visit. Carla tried to stop me, saying, “You have a crucial meeting with Norwegian investors,” but for the first time in years, I didn’t listen.

I drove to Valparaíso with a bouquet of flowers and her favorite cake. My unease grew when I saw the house in darkness, with a padlock on the gate. And then, I found them.

After settling them into the best hotel suite, watching them shiver as they sipped hot soup, I listened to the story. Every word was a stab wound. Carla. My wife. The woman I had entrusted with my entire life. The rage I felt was cold, pure, and absolute.

I drove back to Santiago like a maniac. I went into the attic and found her on a video call. I slammed her laptop shut. “I was in Valparaíso,” I said, with a calmness that terrified her. Her face paled. She tried to justify herself. “It was an executive decision. They were a liability, a distraction. I did what I had to do to protect our future.” “You have no future with me,” I replied. “I want a divorce.” “Don’t be ridiculous,” she retorted, regaining her composure. “The property is legally mine. You gave me power of attorney.” “And you committed fraud and inhuman cruelty. We’ll see what the press says when they find out that the wife of the tech prodigy left her elderly in-laws living on the street.”

The legal battle was short. Faced with the threat of scandal, he gave in.

I don’t live in the penthouse anymore. I sold my majority stake in Andrade Tech and resigned. I live in Valparaíso, in my childhood home, now completely renovated, with central heating and the best sewing machine on the market in the living room. My parents live with me.

One afternoon, while we were having tea on the porch, my mother took my hand. “We lost you for a while, my son.” “No, Mother,” I replied, kissing her wrinkled hand. “I was the one who was lost. You all always knew where I was. I was the one who forgot the way home.”

The story shocked the country, not because of the wealth I left behind, but because of the courage I regained. Mateo Andrade, the millionaire, had disappeared. But Mateo, the son of Antonio and Clara, had finally returned home.