Doña Elena would smile and always reply the same thing:

“That’s enough for me. As long as he’s well.”

But every night, before turning off her kerosene lamp, she would take the old photograph of Diego when he was eight years old, covered in mud but smiling, and kiss it affectionately.

One day, as a light drizzle fell on the fields, a black car—a huge SUV, gleaming like an urban beast—stopped in front of the shack. Diego got out, unrecognizable: Italian suit, watch worth more than the entire orchard, and his hair perfectly styled. But his eyes…

His eyes were lifeless.