The boy’s name was Iktan, and he was ten years old.

He had no memory of parents, no face to attach to the word mother. His life began, as far as he knew, on a night of rain and overflowing water. When he was barely two, an old man named Don Eusebio—an elderly beggar who slept beneath a bridge near the La Viga Canal in Mexico City—found him drifting at the edge of a flooded ditch.

The child lay inside a cracked plastic basin, soaked, trembling, unable to speak or stand. He cried until his voice gave out, until his tears became silent.

Around his tiny wrist was the only clue to where he came from:
a faded red woven bracelet, frayed with age,
and a soggy scrap of paper, the ink almost erased, reading:

“Please… someone kind, take care of this child.
His name is Iktan.”

Don Eusebio had nothing to offer a child—no roof, no money, no certainty.
Only aching legs and a heart that still remembered compassion.

And yet, he took the boy.

He raised Iktan on whatever the streets could provide: day-old bread, donated soup, coins earned from collecting bottles. Nights were cold beneath the bridge, but the old man always wrapped the child in his own coat first.

As Iktan grew, Don Eusebio told him one thing again and again:

—If you ever find your mother someday… forgive her. No one leaves their child without breaking inside.

Iktan grew up among market stalls and shouting vendors, under open skies and concrete shadows. He never knew what his mother looked like. Don Eusebio only remembered details from that night—the bracelet, a long strand of black hair tangled in it, and a faint lipstick stain on the paper.

“She was probably very young,” Don Eusebio would say. “Too young to know how to stay.”

Years passed. Then the old man fell gravely ill, his lungs damaged beyond repair. He was taken to a public hospital, leaving Iktan alone for the first time.

Hungry and desperate, the boy began begging more than ever.

One afternoon, he overheard people talking about a grand wedding in Polanco—the wedding of the year, they said. With an empty stomach and a throat dry from the heat, Iktan followed the noise and lights.

He lingered near the gates of the mansion, watching tables heavy with food: mole, carnitas, pastries, cold bottles sweating in the sun.

A kitchen worker noticed him, softened, and quietly handed him a warm plate.

—Eat fast, kid. And stay out of sight.

Iktan thanked her and sat where he could see inside. Mariachi music filled the air. Men in tailored suits laughed. Women shimmered in silk and jewelry.

As he ate, a thought crossed his mind—small, fragile, dangerous:

Does my mother live like this?
Or is she poor… like me?

Then the music shifted.

The announcer’s voice rang clear:

—Ladies and gentlemen… the bride.

Everyone turned toward the staircase covered in white flowers.

And there she appeared.

Radiant. Calm. Wrapped in a flawless white dress. Long black hair cascading over her shoulders, a smile full of promise and celebration.

But Iktan stopped breathing.

Not because of her beauty.

Because of her wrist.

There—on her arm—was a red woven bracelet.

The same color.
The same thread.
The same worn knot.

Identical to the one he had worn his entire life.

Iktan rubbed his eyes.
He stood up abruptly and walked toward the stage, trembling.

“Ma’am…” she said, her voice breaking, ”
that bracelet… are you… are you my mother?”

The room fell into absolute silence.

The music kept playing, but nobody was breathing.

The bride stopped.
She looked at her wrist.
Then she looked at the child.

And he saw her eyes.

The same ones.

Her legs gave way. She knelt in front of him.

“What’s your name?” he asked, trembling.

—Iktan… I am Iktan… —the boy replied, crying.

The microphone fell to the floor.

The murmurs erupted:

—Is he your son?
—Really?
—How can that be?

The groom, an elegant and serene man, approached.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in a low voice.

The bride burst into tears.

—I was 18… I got pregnant… I was alone… without support…
I couldn’t keep him…
I gave him up…
But I never forgot him…
I kept this bracelet all these years hoping to find him again…

She hugged the child tightly.

—Forgive me, son! Forgive me!

Iktan hugged her too.

—Don Eusebio told me not to hate you…
I’m not angry, Mom…
I just wanted to find you…

The white dress was stained with tears and dust.
Nobody cared.

The groom remained silent.

Nobody knew what he would do.

Cancel the wedding?
Take the child away?
Pretend nothing happened?

Then he approached…
and did not lift the bride up.

He crouched down in front of Iktan, reaching his level.

—Would you like to stay… and eat with us? —he asked gently.

Iktan shook his head.

—I… I just want my mom.

The man smiled.

And he hugged them both.

—Then… if you want…
from today you will have a mother…
and also a father.

The bride looked at him, incredulous, crying.

Aren’t you 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 stopped being 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 more rich or poor.
No differences.

Just a whisper in the child’s heart:

“Don Eusebio… do you see?
I’ve found my mother…”