This is a chapter of my life that I only know through my mother’s words—a tale she recounted many times over the years, each retelling steeped in emotion. Every time I think about it, I am transported back to those harrowing moments when a young 22-year-old woman faced despair head-on, clinging to hope as fragile as a flickering flame. And yet, from that darkness emerged a spark—a glow—that has stayed with me ever since.

I was born into a world carved out of cold stone and thin air, high in the Andes Mountains, where the biting winds never seemed to rest. Our small adobe house stood resilient against the elements, though its warmth could not shield us entirely from the harshness outside. My older brother Carlos had already proven his strength by surviving infancy, but our family bore the heavy memory of Ginés, who succumbed to pneumonia at just three months old. His absence lingered like a shadow over our home; a reminder of how cruel this land could be to newborns.

When I turned three months old, fate tested us once again. The symptoms were eerily familiar—fever, labored breathing, lethargy. It felt as though history was repeating itself, threatening to steal another child from my mother’s arms. But this time, she refused to surrender without a fight.

My father was away, searching for work in distant towns to keep food on our table. There were no doctors nearby, no pharmacies stocked with medicine. Only the wisdom passed down through generations—a knowledge of herbs and remedies whispered among women—but these offered little comfort against the specter of illness. Desperation drove my mother to make a decision: we would journey to Huancayo, where some of her relatives lived, and seek salvation there. She hoped one of them might step forward as my godparent, ensuring that if the worst should happen, at least my soul would find peace. For her faith was unwavering, even as grief weighed heavily upon her heart. She often told me later that she regretted not being able to baptize Ginés before he left this world; now, she vowed to do everything in her power to save me.

The road to Huancayo was long and treacherous. We set out early in the morning, Carlos clutching the hem of my mother’s skirt while she cradled me close, shielding me from the icy wind. The path wound through rugged terrain, past fields of golden grass swaying under a pale sky. After hours of walking, we reached the main road and waited anxiously for a bus—a rare and unpredictable blessing in those days. When it finally arrived, creaking and groaning like an ancient beast, we climbed aboard, grateful for any means of escape from the isolation of our village.

At last, we arrived at La Merced Chapel, a modest structure nestled amidst rolling hills. Its whitewashed walls gleamed faintly in the afternoon light, offering a sliver of solace after our arduous journey. My uncle agreed to stand as my godfather, his face lined with worry but resolute nonetheless. As we entered the chapel, another mother appeared behind us, carrying a baby far sicker than I. Her eyes pleaded silently, desperation etched into every line of her face. Her child lay limp in her arms, unresponsive, barely clinging to life.

My mother hesitated, torn between her own fear and the urgency of the other woman’s plea. “Let him go first,” she said softly, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, let him have a chance.”

The priest began the baptism, his voice steady despite the palpable tension in the room. Yet halfway through the ceremony, the other baby took his final breath, slipping away quietly, leaving behind a stunned silence. My mother collapsed into sobs, overwhelmed by the weight of what she had witnessed. Still, the ritual continued—for me. Water touched my forehead, cool and fleeting, sealing a promise of grace. Though I lacked the strength to cry or open my eyes, something within me stirred, as if responding to the prayers echoing around me.

We returned home burdened by sorrow yet clinging to hope. That night, as Carlos slept soundly in the single bed we shared, my mother kept vigil beside me. She placed me gently in the wooden drawer that served as my crib, watching over me with eyes red from exhaustion and tears. Nearby, a candle burned low, its flame dancing erratically, casting flickering shadows on the mud-brick walls. To my mother, it mirrored my fragile existence—a light on the verge of extinguishing, struggling against forces beyond control.

And then, as if guided by divine intervention, the flame surged suddenly, bursting forth with a sharp crackle. It grew brighter, steadier, filling the room with a warm, golden glow. My mother gasped, her hands flying to her mouth as she whispered, “Yes—you will live.” In that moment, she believed—not because of logic or reason, but because her heart demanded it. Hope, however irrational, had taken root.

The next morning, I woke up transformed. Fever gone, lethargy replaced by vitality, I gazed up at my mother with wide, curious eyes—and perhaps, just perhaps, the beginnings of a smile. She laughed and cried all at once, holding me close, marveling at the miracle of life renewed.

Today, as a father myself, I understand the depths of her anguish, her courage, and her unyielding love. I imagine the sleepless nights, the silent prayers, the fierce determination to protect her children at any cost. Her story reminds me that life is both fragile and resilient, capable of thriving even in the harshest conditions. That flickering flame, which refused to die, became a symbol of perseverance—a testament to the power of faith, hope, and maternal devotion.