“Please, forgive me… I’ll pay you back for everything when I grow up,” the boy said, hiding a loaf of bread under his torn sweater. “My two little siblings are at home, they’re so hungry, and Mom hasn’t gotten up in two days.” I grabbed his wrist before he could leave the bakery. He trembled as if I were going to hit him. And when he lifted his face, I saw he couldn’t have been more than seven years old.
The photograph slipped through my fingers. For a second, I stopped hearing the 911 operator’s voice. I could only see my own face on that old paper—younger, more stubborn, more stupid. I was hugging Ana Belén, the only woman I had ever loved before I became a bitter man behind a counter. She was pregnant….