The Birth of Brothers

In a rural schoolhouse with peeling walls and wobbly desks, the sun filtered in with impertinent curiosity. It was the third grade; Leopoldo, at nine years old and wrapped in clothes that were too big for him, spent his days stealing glances at Grethel. To him, she was not just a pretty girl; she was an unattainable dream, a mirage of neatness amidst his own disarray.

Grethel wore white ribbons in her hair, spoke with the confidence of someone who knows she is loved, and gave off a scent of expensive soap that contrasted with the smell of dry earth in the classroom. The daughter of merchants, she belonged to that world of new notebooks, snacks that tasted like the city, and shoes that shone under the sun. Leopoldo, on the other hand, was a thin, silent boy, his face marked by the harshness of the climate and his hands calloused by the fields. His uniform—a map of clumsy patches sewn by his grandmother—and his old backpack, smelling of corn, were the badges of his lack.

But scarcity did not hinder his devotion. He dedicated himself to the task of being rescued from anonymity: he would place wildflowers on Grethel's desk, hand her rudimentary drawings where the lineage was reversed—he, a prince; she, his princess—and he even memorized poems that he recited with a trembling voice, begging for a smile that would validate his existence.

However, Grethel never laid her eyes on him. Her gaze, instead, was captured by the teacher's son: a tall boy with impeccable hygiene and an easy smile. He was the owner of the leather ball, while Leopoldo kicked a sphere of old socks and frustration. Their closeness became absolute, and Leopoldo, from the darkest corner of the classroom, learned to swallow his rage and metabolize his sadness in silence.

During the sixth-grade closing ceremony, while the rest celebrated the end of childhood with the flashes of cameras, he remained anchored to a solitary bench, contemplating the empty court. It was there, on the periphery of others' joy, that he uttered his first decree:

"Never again will I suffer for a woman. To me, they will only be a pastime."

At twelve years old, Leopoldo was unaware that this promise, born of an unhealed wound, would transform into his own curse. He did not know that, by trying to protect himself from pain, he would become the architect of a trail of broken hearts, including, fatally, those of his own children.