The rain fell heavily that winter night on the outskirts of Cholula, Puebla. Don Ernesto, a man in his late 70s, sat by his wood-burning stove, staring at the embers that barely glowed in the dimness of his small house. Since his wife died fifteen years earlier, he lived alone. His children, both living in Mexico City, only visited him on important occasions. Don Ernesto’s life was quiet and solitary: in the mornings he tended his garden, in the afternoons he watered the plants, and at night he listened to the radio while drinking coffee.

That night, the wind whipped against the windows, and the storm seemed endless. Suddenly, a knock at the door made him jump. He got up slowly, thinking it might be a neighbor in distress. When he opened it, he found a soaked young woman, shivering from the cold, her hair plastered to her face and her clothes sticking to her skin.

“Good evening, sir… May I stay here tonight?” the girl said, her voice trembling. “My name is Lucia. My motorcycle broke down, and I have nowhere to go in this rain.”

Don Ernesto studied her for a few seconds. She didn’t seem homeless or dangerous. Rather, her eyes reflected a mixture of fatigue, fear, and something indefinable, as if life had dealt her too many blows in a short time.

Without hesitation, he signaled for her to come in. He found a towel and an old blanket, and while the young woman dried herself, he heated up some soup and took some tortillas out of the refrigerator.

— I don’t have much, but at least you can warm up, —she said as she served him the soup.

Lucía smiled gratefully and ate in silence. Afterward, she settled into the old living room sofa, wrapped in the blanket. Don Ernesto retired to his room, but the sound of the rain and the memory of the young woman kept him awake.

Around midnight, hearing the wind whistling through the cracks in the windows, Don Ernesto went out to check that everything was all right. As he passed through the living room, he noticed Lucía still awake, hugging her knees and staring into the darkness outside.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked in a low voice.

Lucia shook her head and, after a moment of hesitation, said in a whisper:

— Sir… may I ask you a favor? This is a very strange thing, but I don’t have anyone else…

Don Ernesto sat in front of her, curious and a little worried.

— Tell me, daughter. If I can help you, I will.

Lucia hesitated before speaking. Finally, in a barely audible voice, she confessed:

—Could you… pretend to be my dad for a few days?

Don Ernesto was perplexed. He hadn’t expected such a request.

—Pretend to be your dad? Why?

Lucía took a deep breath and began to tell her story. She was the only child of a single mother, Doña María, who had died just three weeks earlier from cancer. On her birth certificate, the father’s entry was blank; she never knew who her father was, because her mother never wanted to talk about it.

— Now… I’m about to get married, —Lucia continued. — My boyfriend, Javier, comes from a traditional family in Oaxaca. His mother is very strict and doesn’t accept that I don’t have a father. She says a woman without a father can’t enter her family with “honor.” They forced me to present my father at the commitment ceremony.

Lucía confessed that, under pressure from her boyfriend, she had tried to hire an actor to pretend to be her father, but the man had an accident and couldn’t travel to Oaxaca for the ceremony. Desperate, Lucía decided to go to Cholula for a few days to clear her mind. She never imagined she’d end up seeking asylum in a stranger’s home during a storm.

— I know it’s crazy, sir… but I have no one else to ask for this. I just need you to accompany me to Oaxaca, say a few words at the ceremony, and then… I’ll never bother you again. I swear I’ll pay you whatever you ask for.

Don Ernesto remained silent. He wasn’t a man to accept nonsense, but the sincerity and desperation in Lucía’s eyes moved him. He promised to think about it and give her an answer by dawn.

That night, Don Ernesto could barely sleep. He remembered his own youth. He had loved someone once, back when he was a student at UNAM. His girlfriend, Teresa, was from Veracruz, a sweet young woman studying nursing. Due to family prejudices, they had to separate, and he never heard from her again. Sometimes, he wondered if Teresa had had a daughter… but he never dared to look for her.

The next morning, while preparing coffee and sweet bread, Don Ernesto noticed a bruise on Lucía’s face.

“What happened to you there?” he asked, pointing to the purple stain near his eye.

Lucia was startled and tried to cover herself.

— I fell… —he murmured.

Don Ernesto didn’t insist, but something inside him told him it wasn’t just a fall. Later, as he was tidying up the living room, he saw an envelope sticking out of Lucía’s backpack. Accidentally, the envelope fell, and some papers spilled out: Doña María’s death certificate, a medical record, and a letter addressed to “my daughter, Lucía.”

Moved by curiosity—and respect—Don Ernesto only read the first lines of the letter. It read: “Forgive me for not being able to give you your father’s name. He never knew you existed. I only wanted to protect you from further pain…”

Don Ernesto’s heart pounded. His mother’s full name, María Teresa Hernández, sounded painfully familiar. Could it be possible…?

He called Lucia into the kitchen and asked her softly:

—What was your mother’s name, daughter? Where was she born?

“María Teresa Hernández, from Veracruz,” Lucía replied, surprised. “Why?”

Don Ernesto felt a chill run down his spine. It was the same name as his first love, the one he could never forget.

—Do you know if your mother studied nursing at UNAM?

Lucia was speechless.

— Yes… he always told me stories about college in Mexico City. How do you know?

Don Ernesto sat, feeling the world spin around him.

— Because… I was her boyfriend. Over forty years ago. We broke up, but I loved her very much. I never knew she had a daughter…

Lucia covered her mouth in disbelief. Tears streamed down her cheeks. All her life, she’d dreamed of meeting her father, even if it was just once. Now, in a stranger’s house, in the rain, it seemed fate was playing a strange trick on her.

— Do you think… you could be my dad?

Don Ernesto nodded, moved.

— There’s only one way to find out. We can take a DNA test. But in the meantime, if you want… I can accompany you to the ceremony.

Lucía hugged him, trembling with emotion. For the first time in years, she felt the emptiness in her heart begin to fill.

They traveled together to Oaxaca a few days later. During the trip, Lucía told him details of her childhood, her mother, and her childhood dreams. Don Ernesto, for his part, told her about his peaceful life in Cholula, the books he read, and how he had learned to live with loneliness.

In Oaxaca, Javier’s family greeted them with some suspicion. But Don Ernesto’s presence, with his serious demeanor and measured voice, commanded respect. At the ceremony, when asked to speak as the father of the bride, Don Ernesto improvised a few simple yet profound words about love, family, and the value of honesty.

“We don’t always choose the circumstances into which we are born,” he said. “But we can choose how we love and protect those we care about.”

Everyone present was moved. Javier’s mother, who had initially looked suspicious, ended up hugging Lucía and welcoming her into the family.

Upon returning to Cholula, the DNA test confirmed what both of them already suspected: Don Ernesto was Lucía’s biological father. The news brought them even closer together. Don Ernesto decided to sell their small house and move to Mexico City, close to his daughter.

For the first time in a long time, Don Ernesto wasn’t afraid of the future. Every morning, as he made coffee and listened to the bustle of the city, he smiled as he remembered how one rainy night had brought him back the family he thought was lost forever.

And Lucía, who had grown up feeling incomplete, learned that sometimes miracles come at the most unexpected moments. Now, every time she called Don Ernesto “Dad,” she felt that her mother’s love lived on in both of them.