When I got a flat tire in that forgotten garage on Federal Highway X, it never occurred to me that I was about to find the greatest treasure of my life: my son, whom I’d been searching for for 24 years. Before continuing with this story, subscribe to the channel and turn on the bell because every
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Like it and tell us in the comments from which city you’re listening. My name is Atanasio Crisóstomo Mendoza. I’m 55 years old and I’ve been a truck driver for more than three decades. Today I’m going to tell you the most incredible story of my life. The day God granted me the most beautiful gift I
could receive was a Friday in March 2022, around 2:00 p.m.
I was driving Mikenworth on Federal Highway 15, near Magdalena de Quino, Sonora, when something really strange happened to me. You know, after so many years on the road, you develop a sort of sixth sense for these things, but this was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. My load was up to date,
new tires, a serviced trailer. There was no reason to stop.
My route didn’t even cross that area. I’d usually changed my route at the last minute, without any logic. It was as if an invisible force was pulling my steering wheel toward that specific spot. Suddenly, I felt an inexplicable need. An inner voice, clear as spring water, was telling me,
“Stop at that garage up ahead.”
” It wasn’t my voice, it wasn’t my thought; it was something coming from higher up, from deeper inside. I checked the speedometer, the tires, and the rearview mirror. Everything was perfect. Even so, my hand turned the wheel on its own. The sign read: “Taller Pacheco e Hijos, 24-hour service.” It was a simple garage,
like those you find scattered along Mexican highways.
” Nothing special, nothing that caught my eye. But my heart started racing when I parked there in front. I got out of the cab and made up some kind of excuse about checking the rear tires. The owner, a man in his 60s, with the calloused hands of someone who’s been working since he was a kid,
greeted me with a smile. “Good afternoon, trucker.”
“How can we help you?” That’s when I saw him. A young man was crouching, stuck in an engine with his back to me. When he sat up and turned his face in my direction, I felt as if the world had stopped turning, as if time had gone back 24 years, as if God were
whispering in my ear.
“Here’s the answer to your prayers.” The kid was about 25 years old, tanned like me, with the tough hands of someone who’s been working hard. But what caught my attention, what made my heart nearly leap out of my chest, was a small, crescent-shaped scar right on his forehead,
identical to the one I’d looked at every night in the worn photos I’d carried in my wallet for more than two decades. Tadeo. The word left my mouth before I could even think about it.
The young man looked at me, confused, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. “Excuse me, sir, have we met?” he asked in a voice that gave me goosebumps. It was serious, mature, but I recognized something there, something I’d kept in my heart since 1998. I tried to compose myself, but my
hands were shaking.
24 years of searching, 24 years of sleepless nights, 24 years praying on my knees on the cold floor of the trailer, asking God for a sign that would show me where my son was. No, no, sorry, kid, you just seem like someone very special to me. I swallowed, trying to control the emotion that
rose in my throat like a giant wave.
“What’s your name, my son?” “Tadeo,” he answered. And it was as if a bolt of lightning had pierced my chest. Tadeo Pacheco. I’ve been working here with Donaristo since I was 14. Tadeo Pacheco. He was no longer Tadeo Mendoza Solózano, as it said on the birth certificate I carried in my wallet along with the photo of a
smiling baby with a small scar on his forehead. The shop owner approached, noticing my nervousness.
“Everything’s fine, truck driver. He looks kind of pale. I just need to check something on the tire.” I stammered, walking toward the back of the truck to try to compose myself, but my mind was in complete chaos. It was possible. After so many years, so many cities, so many dashed hopes
— it was possible that God had finally heard my prayers.
I leaned against the trailer and closed my eyes. Heavenly Father, I murmured softly, if he is truly my Tadeo, give me the strength to know how to act. I’ve searched for you for so long, I never stopped believing that you would bless me with this moment. When I opened my eyes, Tadeo was standing beside me with a worried expression on his face.
I’m sure you’re fine, sir.
Would you like a glass of water? It was at that moment that something inexplicable happened. Looking into his eyes, I saw something I immediately recognized. It wasn’t just the scar, it wasn’t just the facial features, it was something deeper, more primal. It was my son’s gaze, that same sweet, curious gaze.
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