The first few months were extremely difficult.
An older woman named Rosa, an acquaintance of a friend of my mother’s, rented me a small room on the outskirts of Guadalajara for a nominal fee.
She never asked too many questions, but she always found a way to leave a cup of hot soup outside my door when she sensed I was having a bad day.
Her help was more important than she imagined.
As the weeks went by, I found a job at a nearby café.
In the mornings, I cleaned tables and served breakfast; in the afternoons, I continued my studies through a distance-learning program.
It wasn’t the life I had imagined, but I was determined not to give up.
Months later, my daughter was born.
When I first held her in my arms, I understood that, despite all the difficulties, I would never allow her to grow up feeling alone.
I named her Valentina.
