The boy’s name was Iktan. He was 10 years old. Iktan had no parents. He only remembered that when he was about two years old, Don Eusebio, an elderly beggar who lived under a bridge near the Canal de La Viga in Mexico City, had found him inside a plastic washbasin, floating near the edge of a ditch after a storm.
The little one didn’t know how to speak or walk. He just cried until he lost his voice.
Around his wrist was a single thing: a woven red bracelet, old and frayed, and a piece of damp paper where one could barely read: “Please, someone good take care of this boy. His name is Iktan.”
Don Eusebio had nothing: no home, no money, no family. He only had tired legs and a heart that still knew how to love. Even so, he carried the boy and raised him with the little he could find: stale bread, donated soup, recycled bottles.
He always told Iktan: —When you grow up, and if one day you find your mother… forgive her. No one abandons their child without their soul hurting.
Iktan grew up among street stalls, open-air markets, and cold nights under the bridge. He never knew what his mother looked like. Don Eusebio only told him that when he found him, the paper had a lipstick stain and a long hair tangled in the bracelet. He thought his mother was very young… perhaps too young to raise a child.
One day, Don Eusebio fell seriously ill with a lung condition and was taken to a public hospital. Without money, Iktan had to go out and beg for food more than ever.
That afternoon, he heard people say that the biggest wedding of the year was being celebrated at a mansion in Polanco. With an empty stomach and a dry throat, he decided to try his luck.
He stood timidly near the entrance. The tables were overflowing with food: mole, carnitas, sweet bread, cold sodas. A kitchen assistant saw him, felt sorry for him, and handed him a hot plate. —Sit over there and eat quickly, boy. Don’t let anyone see you.
Iktan thanked her and started eating, looking inside. The mariachi music, the elegant suits, the sparkling dresses. He thought in silence: Does my mom live in a place like this… or is she poor like me?
Then, the voice of the master of ceremonies resonated: —Here with you… the bride!
The music changed. All eyes turned to the staircase adorned with white flowers. And there she appeared. With an impeccable white dress, a serene smile, her long black hair falling in soft waves. Beautiful, radiant.
But Iktan froze. It wasn’t her beauty that paralyzed him… but the red bracelet on the bride’s wrist. It was identical. The same wool. The same color. The same worn knot.
Iktan rubbed his eyes. He stood up abruptly and walked toward the stage, trembling. —Ma’am… —he said with a broken voice— that bracelet… are you… are you my mom?
The room went absolutely silent. The music kept playing, but no one breathed. The bride stopped. She looked at her wrist. Then she looked at the boy. And she saw his eyes. The same ones.
Her legs failed her. She knelt in front of him. —What is your name? —she asked, trembling. —Iktan… I am Iktan… —the boy replied, crying.
The microphone fell to the floor. Murmurs erupted: —Is that her son? —Really? —How can that be?
The groom, an elegant and serene man, approached. —What is happening? —he asked in a low voice.
The bride broke down in tears. —I was 18 years old… I got pregnant… I was alone… without support… I couldn’t keep him… I left him… But I never forgot him… I kept this bracelet all these years hoping to find him again…
She hugged the boy tightly. —Forgive me, son! Forgive me!
Iktan hugged her back. —Don Eusebio told me not to hate you… I’m not angry, Mom… I just wanted to find you…
The white dress got stained with tears and dust. No one cared.
The groom remained silent. No one knew what he would do. Cancel the wedding? Send the boy away? Pretend nothing happened?
Then, he approached… and he didn’t pull the bride up. He crouched down in front of Iktan, getting to his eye level. —Would you like to stay… and eat with us? —he asked him gently.
Iktan shook his head. —I… I just want my mom.
The man smiled. And he hugged them both. —Then… if you want… starting today you will have a mother… and also a father.
The bride looked at him, incredulous, crying. —You’re not angry with me? I hid my past from you…
—I didn’t marry your past —he whispered— I married the woman I love. And I love you even more knowing how much you suffered.
That wedding ceased to be luxurious. It ceased to be elegant. It became something sacred. The guests began to applaud, through tears. They weren’t celebrating a wedding. They were celebrating a reunion.
Iktan took his mother’s hand. And the hand of the man who had just called him “son.” There were no longer rich or poor. No differences. Just a whisper in the boy’s heart: “Don Eusebio… do you see? I found my mom…”
