I left with a small bag of clothes and less than twenty dollars. The next morning, everyone in town knew about it. We were whispering when I was walking past the market. The women in front of the church lowered their voices and stared at my belly that was rounding.
For several weeks, I slept where I could. Finally, an old lady named Rosa allowed me to rent a tiny room behind her house, near Guadalajara. She asked me almost nothing and sometimes left food outside my door without saying a word.
I worked until exhaustion.
When work started, Rosa took me to a small private clinic. There was no member of my family waiting outside. No one held my hand except Rosa.
Childbirth was difficult.
I remember hearing a baby cry.
Then I heard a nurse screaming that there was another child.
Twins.
I didn’t know because I had hardly received any medical follow-up during my pregnancy.
We put the first baby in my arms. She had black hair and the smallest fingers I’ve ever seen. I called her Valentina.
The second baby was taken away before I could see his face.
A doctor came back a few minutes later and told me she had not survived.
I cried until I was exhausted.
For years, I carried the burden of this girl’s pain that I had never been able to hug in my arms.
Valentina has become my reason for living.
I worked as a waitress by day and studied in the evening. While she was asleep, I made bracelets, bags and small accessories that I sold online. At first, I only received one or two orders a week.
Then a photo of my handmade jewelry went viral.
Orders began to flow across the country. I hired two women to help me. Then ten. A small online store has become a brand, and the brand has become an international company.
Six years later, I bought our first home.
Ten years later, I owned shops throughout Mexico.
At thirty-five, I was richer than the scared little girl we had thrown on the street could never have imagined.
But success has not healed everything.
Every birthday reminded me that there should have been two girls by my side.
