On August 23, 2006, Roberto Campos left his home in the Lindavista neighborhood of Mexico City to go to work, just as he did every morning. He kissed his wife Patricia on the forehead, gently ruffled the hair of his two children who were eating breakfast at the table, and closed the door behind him. That was the last time his family ever saw him.

For 17 years, Patricia Ruiz lived with the pain of not knowing what had happened to the man with whom she had shared 12 years of marriage. The police investigated, the family searched, neighbors speculated, but Roberto had simply vanished—like smoke dissolving into the air of a city with 20 million inhabitants.

Then, one morning in September 2023, Patricia walked into a bank branch in the southern part of the city to take care of a routine errand, and her world came to a sudden stop. The man standing three people ahead of her in line had the same posture, the same gestures, the same way of scratching the back of his neck that Roberto had.

When the man turned slightly and Patricia saw his profile, her heart jolted so violently that she had to lean against the wall. He was 17 years older, with more gray hair and deeper wrinkles, wearing glasses he never used to wear. But it was him. It was impossible. It was unreal. But it was Roberto.

And when he left the bank, Patricia made the decision that would change everything. She followed him.

What she discovered in the hours that followed would shatter everything she believed she knew about the man she had married, about the life they had built together, and about the true reason Roberto Campos had disappeared without a trace.

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Now let’s go back to understand how everything began, to understand what happened in August 2006. To do that, we need to know who Roberto Campos was and the life he had built in Mexico City.

Roberto was born in 1972 in Guadalajara, Jalisco, but moved to the capital at age 22 in search of better opportunities. He was of average height, slim build, with a face that blended into the crowd on the subway—nothing particularly striking. He worked as an accountant at a medium-sized construction materials distribution company in the industrial area of Vallejo.

It was a stable job that allowed him to support his family without luxury, but with dignity. He met Patricia Ruiz in 1993 at a birthday party for a mutual friend. She worked as a receptionist at a dental clinic and had a contagious laugh that lit up any room. They married in 1994 in a simple ceremony at the neighborhood parish, attended by close family and a few friends.

They didn’t have much money, but they had plans—dreams of a better future. Their first son, Daniel, was born in 1996, and their second, Alejandro, in 1999. By the year 2000, they had managed to buy a modest house in Lindavista, a working-class neighborhood in the Gustavo A. Madero district in the north of the city.

Roberto was what people would call a good man. He didn’t drink excessively, didn’t gamble, came home every night. On weekends, he took the kids to the park, helped Patricia with groceries, watched soccer with the neighbors. He was the kind of father who attended school meetings, who carefully saved a little money every month for the annual family vacation to Acapulco, who dreamed of someday being able to pay for his children’s university education.

His coworkers described him as serious but kind, meticulous with numbers, always punctual, never causing trouble. Life in Lindavista during those years was typical of working-class neighborhoods in Mexico City. The streets were always full of street vendors, the sound of garbage trucks mixing with the bells of sweet potato carts in the afternoons.

The Campos family lived in a two-story house with a red brick façade and a small garden in front that Patricia tended carefully, planting geraniums and bougainvillea that added color to the street. Neighbors knew one another, borrowed sugar when needed, watched each other’s children, and gossiped on street corners on Sundays after mass.

But beneath this appearance of normalcy, Roberto Campos carried a secret that was eating him alive—a secret that neither Patricia, nor his children, nor anyone close to him suspected. And that secret was about to explode in the most devastating way possible.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006, appeared to be an ordinary day. Mexico City woke up under its characteristic late-summer gray sky, when afternoon rain is almost predictable. Roberto got up at 6:00 a.m. as usual. Patricia heard him moving in the bathroom, the sound of the shower, his footsteps in the hallway. They had breakfast together as always—coffee and sweet bread—while the children were still asleep.

Daniel was 10 years old and Alejandro was 7. School had started just two weeks earlier. Patricia would later remember every detail of that morning with painful clarity. Roberto seemed distracted, quieter than usual, but she attributed it to work stress. The company was undergoing an external audit, and Roberto had mentioned that he was overloaded with work.

He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt, gray dress pants, and freshly polished black shoes. His brown faux-leather briefcase—the same one he had used for years—waited by the door.

“Are you okay?” Patricia asked as she poured him more coffee.

Roberto looked up and smiled at her in that way that always made her feel safe.
“Yes, my love. Just tired. Nothing a good coffee can’t fix.”

He kissed her on the forehead—a routine gesture she had received thousands of times, but one that would later take on a heartbreaking meaning. He went upstairs to wake the children, helped them get dressed, and prepared their lunches for school.

Daniel had a math test and was nervous. Roberto sat with him for a few minutes, reviewing fraction problems with the calm patience that defined his fatherhood.

At 7:30 a.m., Roberto picked up his briefcase, said goodbye to the children as they finished their cereal, and left the house. Patricia watched him walk down the street toward Montevideo Avenue, where he would catch the microbus to the subway. The sky threatened rain.

That was the last image she had of him: his back slightly hunched under the weight of his briefcase, walking among other workers heading to their jobs, disappearing into the human current of a city that never sleeps.

Roberto never arrived at work that day.

At 10:00 a.m., his boss called the house asking for him. That was completely unusual—Roberto was obsessively punctual. Patricia felt the first sharp stab of worry. She called Roberto’s cellphone, but it was turned off. That was strange. Roberto always kept his phone on in case his family needed him.

She waited, thinking maybe there had been a transportation issue, that microbuses were unpredictable, that the subway sometimes stopped between stations.

But when noon came and Roberto had still given no sign of life, worry turned into alarm.

Patricia called the company again. No, he hadn’t arrived. He hadn’t called. She called the few relatives they had in the city. No one knew anything.

At 2:00 p.m., she left the children with a neighbor and went out to look for him, retracing the route Roberto took every day. She asked at corner stores, spoke to street vendors who were always in the same spots. No one remembered seeing him that morning.

It was as if Roberto Campos had dissolved into the air.

That same afternoon, Patricia filed a missing person report at the public prosecutor’s office in Gustavo A. Madero. The officer who took her report—a middle-aged man with a tired look—handled it with a mix of routine and skepticism that Patricia found unsettling.

“Ma’am, many men leave for a few days and come back when they cool off or run out of money.”

Patricia insisted that Roberto wasn’t like that, that something terrible must have happened. The officer sighed, filled out the forms, and gave her a case number. She was told to wait 72 hours before it would be considered an official disappearance requiring active investigation.

Those 72 hours were an eternity.

Patricia didn’t sleep. She constantly called Roberto’s phone, which remained off. She visited hospitals and Red Cross clinics in the area, asking if any man matching his description had been admitted.

Daniel and Alejandro asked where their father was, and she didn’t know what to tell them. She said that their dad had to go on an urgent work trip, but the children sensed her anguish.

The house felt strangely empty without Roberto’s steady presence—without the sound of his footsteps, without the smell of his cheap cologne and the cigarettes he secretly smoked in the patio.

When the 72 hours passed and Roberto still hadn’t appeared, the police finally began a formal investigation. They checked his last known location, spoke with coworkers, neighbors, and relatives.

What they found was baffling. Roberto had simply left his house that morning and vanished. There were no credit card charges, no cash withdrawals, no phone calls. His last recorded signal was at 7:45 a.m., when his phone pinged a cell tower near Lindavista metro station.

After that, nothing. Absolute silence.

Investigators explored all standard possibilities. Marital problems? Patricia insisted their relationship was solid. Debts? Bank accounts showed nothing unusual. Depression? Suicidal thoughts? No signs. Another woman? Coworkers said Roberto was discreet and devoted, always speaking lovingly about his family.

They searched nearby canals, vacant lots, hospitals with unidentified patients, and the morgue. Nothing.

Roberto Campos had vanished from the face of the earth as if he had never existed. And with each passing day, the chances of finding him alive faded like smoke in the indifferent wind of a city accustomed to individual tragedies.

Life after the disappearance

The first months were the hardest. Patricia moved through the house like a ghost, mechanically performing daily routines while her mind was trapped in a constant loop of unanswered questions. Where was Roberto? What had happened to him? Was he alive? Was he suffering? Had he deliberately abandoned them?

Every sound at the door made her jump, hoping it was him returning with some impossible explanation that would bring him back.

The children suffered in their own ways. Daniel, at 10 years old, became quieter and more serious, taking on responsibilities beyond his age. He helped care for Alejandro, made sure he did his homework, ensured he ate.

Alejandro, at 7, didn’t fully grasp the permanence of his father’s absence. He kept asking when his dad would return, whether he would be there for his birthday, whether they would still go to Acapulco like always.

Roberto’s family from Guadalajara came to Mexico City to help search. His mother, Doña Marta—a small, deeply religious woman—insisted her son would never abandon his family, that something terrible must have happened.

They posted missing person flyers throughout Lindavista and nearby neighborhoods:
“Looking for Roberto Campos García, 34 years old, missing since August 23, 2006.”
Patricia’s phone number appeared on hundreds of poles, walls, and bus stops.

Calls came in—but all led nowhere.

Someone thought they had seen him in Tepito. It was someone else. A psychic called offering her services, claiming she saw Roberto “on the other side.” Patricia hung up angrily. A man demanded money in exchange for information and never showed up.

Roberto’s company offered condolences and returned his belongings: family photos from his desk, a company mug, some personal documents. They thoroughly reviewed his work computer—nothing unusual. Routine emails, invoices, spreadsheets. His professional life was as ordinary as his personal one appeared.

Financially, the situation quickly became unsustainable. Roberto’s salary had been the family’s main support. Patricia took a second job at a clothing store in the afternoons after her dental clinic shift. The savings they had carefully set aside for their children’s education were consumed by daily expenses.

They sold the car—a battered but reliable Nissan Tsuru. The house, purchased through an Infonavit loan, nearly went into foreclosure until Patricia managed to restructure the debt with the help of a sympathetic lawyer.

Neighbors, initially supportive, began to speculate. At corner stores and during laundry-day conversations, theories spread: Roberto had another family, he ran off with a lover, he was involved in something shady.

Some people, with misguided good intentions, told Patricia she should move on, that after a year it was time to rebuild her life. She silenced them with a cold look. You cannot move on from someone who vanished without explanation, without a body to bury, without closure.

Daniel entered middle school and became a responsible, silent teenager beyond his years. He worked weekends at a taco stand to help with expenses, lying about his age. When Patricia found out, she cried—not because of the work, but because of the childhood her son was sacrificing.

Alejandro developed behavioral problems at school—fighting, refusing to do homework. A psychologist at a community clinic explained he was experiencing ambiguous grief: loss without confirmation, especially hard for children.

By 2009, three years after the disappearance, Patricia had to accept that she might never know what happened to Roberto. The police investigation was shelved—one more unresolved disappearance in a city where people vanish with disturbing regularity.

Doña Marta begged her not to stop searching, but Patricia no longer had the strength or resources. She had to survive, to raise her children, to keep going—even though her heart remained trapped in August 2006.

Years passed. Patricia aged in ways not caused by time alone—premature gray hair, deep lines around her eyes, a permanent exhaustion in her posture. She had chances to rebuild her romantic life, but she couldn’t. Legally, she was still married. Emotionally, part of her still waited for the door to open.

Daniel graduated high school in 2012 and took a job at a furniture store, indefinitely postponing college. Alejandro improved behaviorally but never fully overcame his father’s absence.

Patricia settled into a routine that kept her sane: work, home, children, Sunday mass, occasional visits to the empty grave Doña Marta had insisted on buying in Guadalajara. “For when we find him,” the old woman would say. A faith Patricia could no longer share.

By 2020—14 years later—life had continued as it always does. Mexico City grew, changed. Lindavista transformed. Patricia’s children became young adults. She learned to live with pain as a constant companion.

And then came September 2023—17 years later—and everything changed in the most impossible way imaginable.