UNTIL I DISCOVERED WHO WAS REALLY RICH
I was the terror of the school. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s a fact. When I walked through the hallways, the younger kids lowered their gaze, and the teachers pretended not to see certain things. My name is Sebastián. Only child. My father was an influential politician, one of those who appear on television smiling while talking about “equal opportunities.” My mother owned a chain of luxury spas. We lived in a mansion so large that the silence echoed through the hallways.
I had everything a boy my age could want: the most expensive sneakers, the latest iPhone, designer clothes, a credit card that seemed bottomless. But I also had something no one saw: a heavy, thick loneliness that accompanied me even when I was surrounded by people.
At school, my power was based on fear. And like any coward with power, I needed a victim.
Tomás was that victim.
Tomás was the scholarship student. The one who was always at the back of the classroom. The one who wore the uniform handed down from some unknown cousin. He walked with hunched shoulders and his eyes fixed on the floor, as if apologizing for existing. He always carried his lunch in a crumpled brown paper bag, stained with oil that betrayed simple, repetitive meals.
To me, he was a perfect target.
Every day, during recess, I repeated the same “prank.” I snatched the bag from his hands, climbed onto a table, and shouted so everyone could hear:
“Let’s see what garbage the little prince from the favela brought today!”
Laughter erupted like fireworks. I thrived on that sound. Tomás never fought back. He didn’t yell. He didn’t push. He just stood there, his eyes bright red, silently pleading for it all to end quickly. I took out his food—sometimes a bruised banana, sometimes cold rice—and threw it in the trash as if it were contaminated.
Afterward, I’d go to the cafeteria and buy pizza, hamburgers, whatever I wanted, paying with my card without even looking at the price.
I never thought of it as cruelty. To me, it was entertainment.
Until that gray Tuesday.
That day the sky was overcast, and the air was uncomfortably cold. Something in the atmosphere was different, but I didn’t pay it any mind. When I saw Tomás, I noticed his bag seemed smaller. Lighter.
“Oh,” I said with a crooked smile, “it’s light today. What’s wrong, Tomás? Did you run out of money for rice?”
For the first time, Tomás tried to take it from me.
“Please, Sebastián,” he said, his voice breaking. “Give it to me. Not today.”
That plea ignited something dark within me. I felt power. I felt control.
I opened the bag in front of everyone and shook it upside down.
No food fell out.
Only a piece of stale bread fell, with nothing inside, and a folded piece of paper.
I laughed loudly.
“Look at this! A rock-hard loaf! Careful, you might break your teeth!”
The laughter started, but it wasn’t as loud as usual. Something didn’t add up.
I bent down and picked up the paper. I thought it was a to-do list, or some unimportant note to keep teasing. I unfolded it and read it aloud, exaggerating my tone:
“My son: Forgive me. I couldn’t afford cheese or butter today. I skipped breakfast this morning so you could have this piece of bread. It’s all there is until I get paid on Friday. Eat it slowly so it fills you up more. Get good grades. You are my pride and my hope. Love, Mom.”
My voice trailed off as I read.
When I finished, the playground was silent. A heavy, uncomfortable silence, as if everyone had stopped breathing at the same time.
I looked at Tomás.
He was crying silently, covering his face, not from sadness… but from shame.
I looked at the bread on the ground.
That bread wasn’t trash.
It was his mother’s breakfast.
It was hunger transformed into love.
For the first time in my life, something inside me broke.
I thought about my own lunchbox, made of Italian leather, which I had left on the bench. It was full of gourmet sandwiches, imported juices, expensive chocolates. I didn’t know exactly what was inside. I never did. My mother didn’t pack it. The maid did.
My mother hadn’t asked me how school had gone in three days.
I felt disgusted. A deep disgust, not from my stomach, but from my soul.
My body was full, but my heart was empty.
Tomás’s stomach was empty, but it was overflowing with such love that someone was willing to go hungry for him.
I approached him.
Everyone expected another taunt.
But I knelt down.
I carefully picked up the bread, as if it were sacred, and wiped it with my sleeve. I placed it in his hand along with the note.
Then I went to my backpack, took out my lunch, and put it in his lap.
“Swap lunch with me, Tomás,” I said, my voice breaking. “Please. Your bread is worth more than everything I own.”
I didn’t know if he would forgive me. I didn’t know if I deserved it.
I sat down beside him.
That day I didn’t eat pizza.
I ate humility.
The following days were different. I didn’t become a one-day hero.
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