The blog of a love

He was 16 years old and "a bag full of bones." She got pregnant with her first boy friend from school. She was fucking poor, the only child of a single mother.

After the "positive", they looked into each other's eyes and began to cry. He, one more chamito of the Caracas middle class, broke that result into a thousand pieces. "And now? What are we going to do? ”They asked themselves over and over again along a San Martín avenue that seemed endless.    

It was not promiscuous or an evil plan. It was the passion of a couple of teenagers without much knowledge of contraceptive management. 

They did not think of having an abortion, although there was no chance either. When they found out, the pregnancy had already passed the fourth month. But the fear was such that the belly did not dare to sprout.

In the midst of her innocence, Gabriela devised a strategy to try to make sure that the reaction of her mother, a fervent Catholic, was not so egregious. He proposed to go to the mass of a father friend of the family, Juan Manuel Fernández, who offered his sermons at the “Dulce Nombre de Jesús” Church in Petare. The priest, who was already aware of everything, would be the official spokesman.

To the sound of “you can go in peace, the mass is over”, the war began for Gabriela.

The entire family went to the room behind the altar to greet the father, who quickly and elegantly unveiled the mystery: “we are here to welcome you to life. Your daughter Gabriela carries in her womb a blessing that will fill this home with joy ”.

"But what home?" Gabriela's mother wondered. After the famous "I'm sorry, that belly is not mine" that his partner spat at him before disappearing, everything had been a single farrowing. Not in vain they had sixteen years living between the street and the "family houses" where she worked as a "cachifa".

"Are you really pregnant Gabriela? I'll kill you, ”the lady shouted, seconds before bursting into tears. "I wanted you to study, not to have to clean the shit of others like me," he said.

In that instant, Gabriela knew that nothing hurts more than disappointing someone who loves you. Even anger and hatred are more tolerable than feeling like you've broken another's heart.

However, to reverse that maternal premonition, she made a commitment to herself: "Now more than ever I'm going to study." She would stop at dawn, take care of her little boy, leave him under the care of a neighbor, who had to be paid on time.   

So he was able to finish college and then start college. He always studied. He has worked ever since. The boy's father stopped being her boyfriend, but fortunately he and his family, after assimilating the bitter drink, assumed parental responsibilities.

But the truth is that Gabriela's mother was right: there was no home. Or at least not a decent home to build a family nucleus in holy peace.  

At just a couple of years old, her son had already lived in countless rooms in the different neighborhoods of Caracas. Some were smaller and more uncomfortable than others. Especially because four lived: Gabriela, her mother, her stepfather and the baby.

As expected, the fights with his mother (as much as he loved his grandson) did not wait. The shortage of square meters often intensifies any discomfort.

So Gabriela tried to move in with her little one. But in all places the answer was blunt: "not with that child", "we do not accept women with children", and so on. That is why, before the carajito was five years old, she made the most difficult decision of her life: to prioritize the well-being of her son over his pain.

"Come here my love, mom has something to tell you ..." and yes, she did. As delicately as possible, she explained to her son that he would have to live with his father while she worked out “a nice place for the two of us”.

Then, she began to write a kind of diary, where she told her son how much she missed him and the steps she was taking to fulfill her promise: “Today, March 12, 2013, you have been living with your dad for 12 days. I have tried to make it as uncomplicated as possible for you, but it hurts so much ”, reads the first page of that experiment.  

Lyrics came and went in an orchestrated plan for the future: to be able to show them, one day, to his son. In this way, he hoped that he could "know and understand" everything that at five years of age he was unable to process. Maybe it was also her way of dealing with the fear of being rejected or judged by her little one.

The most painful thing was not sleeping next to him. His only consolation: to see him grow in a healthy environment. “Life is not fair or at least I feel that way right now. Maybe it's your father's time, so that he has you, feels and enjoys, although we know that children are not from parents but from life. I hope that this that I write will serve you one day, that you know love is the only important thing, that my love is you, ”says the ink shed by her tears.

It took six years and many notebooks for that safe place to exist. Today they live together, in their own, humble, perfect roof. His dad left the country. It is her turn to "have, feel, enjoy" the follies of a healthy and happy adolescent. For this reason, in this column we firmly believe in “the twists and turns that life takes”.

Tell me your story, write it as it may, together we shape and share it. Spread the different forms of love, it is always necessary: [email protected]

 

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