Nine o’clock.
Then to Richard.
Then to Clara.
And finally, the rich couple.
“Family isn’t always the most comfortable option,” he said slowly. “But it is the most fulfilling.”
He closed the folder.
—The nine o’clock ones… are going with him.
The girls’ cries filled the house that very night.
But it wasn’t an empty cry.
It was life.
Chaos.
Hope.
Richard didn’t know when he had gone from carrying boxes to carrying nine destinations. He didn’t know how he was going to manage it the next day.
But for the first time in two years…
He was not alone.
The years were not easy.
There were days without enough food. Sleepless nights. Illness, debt, fear.
But I never give up.
The girls grew up amidst tight laughter, hand-me-downs, and a firm certainty: someone had chosen them.
One by one they found their way.
Alma became a doctor. Lucía, a lawyer. Carmen, a teacher. Inés, an engineer. Rosario, a nurse. Beatriz, a chef. Teresa, an architect. Magdalena, a journalist. Pilar, a musician.
Nine stories.
Nine complete lives.
Forty-six years later, the port of Veracruz was once again filled with murmurs.
But this time… it wasn’t teasing.
They were amazing.
In the same house, now rebuilt, nine women stood around a man with white hair, worn hands, and a calm gaze.
Richard was holding an old photograph.
Nine cribs.
Nine beginnings.
“Do you remember?” Pilar asked, smiling.
“Everything,” he replied.
Lucía straightened his shirt.
—People said you were crazy.
Richard let out a soft laugh.
—They were right.
Alma took his hand.
—But it was the most beautiful madness anyone could have for us.
Elena wasn’t there.
But his promise did.
And it hadn’t rotted.
He had grown.
It had multiplied.
It had become nine lives that, against all odds, not only survived…
but they learned to stay.
And this time, for good.
Leave a Comment