Mr. González was a literature teacher at a high school located on the outskirts of Guadalajara. He was known for being strict, quiet, and very reserved. He never attended staff dinners or school celebrations. Students only saw him in class; when the last bell rang, he would hop on his old bicycle and pedal back to his small room in the teachers’ dormitories, where he would turn off the light early and get up before dawn.

No one understood why such a wise and kind man had chosen to live alone for decades, without getting married, without ever talking about family.

Everything changed one summer, when Professor Gonzalez found Emiliano, a seventh-grader, huddled in the school hallway during a heavy storm. His left leg was missing from above the knee, wrapped in a dirty bandage. Next to him, a small cloth bag with a pair of old clothes.

With some patience, the teacher discovered that Emiliano had lost his leg in a car accident. His parents, overwhelmed and ashamed, had abandoned him. No family member wanted to take care of him. The boy wandered between bus terminals and temple steps, and had found refuge under the roof of his old school.

Professor González did not hesitate.

He asked the principal to allow Emiliano to stay temporarily in the old physical education warehouse. Quietly, he used the pension savings his parents had left him to remodel a small forgotten kitchen next to his room, and turned it into a clean and safe space for the boy to sleep.

Over time, the story became known in school. Some admired him, others criticized him—they said he was an eccentric, that he was complicating his life. But he just smiled.

For years, she woke up early to make Emiliano atole or oatmeal. After school, she would take him to doctor’s appointments, to physical therapy, and collect used books so he could catch up on the subjects he had missed.

Some mocked:

“Others care about their own children, and he martyrs himself for a child who is not even in his family.”

The teacher always replied calmly, “That child needs me. That’s all that matters.”

Even when Emiliano entered high school—now five miles away—teacher Gonzalez continued to ride him on his bike every day. He feared the young man would be embarrassed by his artificial leg, so he asked the teachers to seat him in the front row: easier to care for, less exposed to stares.

Despite everything, Emiliano never lowered his performance. He studied with discipline, grateful for every opportunity.

After twelve years of studies, he passed the university entrance exam with outstanding grades. The day he left for Mexico City to study architecture, Maestro González said goodbye to him in the terminal with just a few words:

“Eat well. Stay strong. If the going gets tough, drop me a line.

I don’t have much in this life. Just you to be proud of.”

While Emiliano was away, the teacher continued to live alone—getting up early, making his tea, and tutoring to save money and send him what he could for books and tuition. Some people tried to introduce him to a partner. He always refused with a smile:

“I’ve gotten used to loneliness. I just want that child to finish his studies and live well.”

And Emiliano succeeded.

Four years later, he graduated with honors and was hired by a design firm. When he received his first salary, he sent Maestro González an envelope full of new bills. The teacher, whose eyesight was already beginning to fail, carefully counted each bill and then put them away to buy rice, oil, and joint medicine.

“This money is my son’s,” he muttered to himself.

“I must spend it wisely.”

The day Emiliano took his girlfriend to meet the master, the old man’s hands trembled as he made tea. He was nervous—like a real father meeting his son’s future wife.

The young woman took Emiliano’s hand tenderly, bowed and said:

“We plan to get married by the end of the year and we want you to move in with us.

Don’t worry, professor. Emiliano will not leave him behind.”

Maestro González laughed, wiping his misty eyes:

“I’m already used to this little room. I’m fine here.”

But Emiliano insisted:

“You gave up on starting a family to give me a future.

And now that I’m forming mine, you’re the first person I want to take home.”

Twenty years had passed since that stormy night. From being a child abandoned under the roof of a school, Emiliano had become a man with a future—all thanks to the unwavering kindness of a teacher with no blood ties.

On the day of the wedding, maestro González wore an old beige suit that the groom himself had given him. He sat in the front row, smiling silently as Emiliano placed the ring on his wife’s finger.

A guest approached and asked:

“Is he the father of the groom?”

The teacher smiled:

“No… I’m just his old master.”

But for Emiliano, Maestro González was so much more—he was a father, a guardian, the firmest shoulder he ever stood on.

After the wedding, Emiliano kept his promise. The teacher moved with the couple into his modest apartment. Every morning, she watered the plants on the balcony that Emiliano had chosen. In the afternoons, she picked up her little granddaughter from kindergarten, her trembling hands firmly gripping the girl’s little fingers.

Once, a neighbor asked him: “And why did you never get married? Now it depends on others.”

The master just smiled, “I may not have blood children. But the one God gave me… he is more of a son than any I could have raised.”

Maestro González died peacefully one morning, by the window, at the age of eighty. Emiliano held his hand and whispered: “Rest now, grandpa. I will live well. And I will raise my daughter with the values you taught me.”

The master smiled slightly—like a final sigh.

Outside, the old schoolyard echoed with the drums of children playing.
A thin mist of rain caressed the air—like a gentle embrace,
enveloping every lost child who is still waiting to find a shoulder to lean on…
and to believe in goodness again.