His grandmother, Doña Esperanza, was a seventy-three-year-old woman with wrinkled hands and a back bent from decades of hard work. Her knees creaked every morning when she got up, and the pain in her bones had become a silent companion that never left her.
They lived alone, almost two hours from the nearest town, in an adobe house with a rusty tin roof and walls that let in the cold night wind. Esperanza’s husband had d.ied fifteen years before, and her only son, Mateo’s father, had gone to the United States looking for work when the boy was just four.
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