Two Years Ago

Two years ago, when I was just eighteen, my life was a constant struggle. I come from a humble family and had achieved what many considered impossible: getting into a state university. But that was just the first obstacle. Reality hit me every day. I didn’t have a computer, an essential tool for any student, and my notes were a mess of loose sheets that I tried to organize. There were days when classes stretched from morning until night, and hunger was my only companion. My stomach growled in the middle of a calculus class, and I could only drink tap water to trick it while watching my classmates go to the cafeteria. Money was an obsession, a necessity that suffocated me.

One day, returning home, exhausted and demoralized, I passed by one of the prettiest areas of the neighborhood. About two blocks from my house, I saw a woman in her garden. She looked to be around fifty-five, with short hair and silver strands that, far from aging her, gave her an air of distinction. She was a friendly woman, with generous curves and an imposing presence. She was trying to prune some plants, but it was clear she had no idea what she was doing; the garden, despite the size of the house, was neglected, with weeds growing everywhere. In my mind, a light bulb went off: opportunity. I needed money, and that garden needed help.

I mustered my courage, approached the gate, and cleared my throat to get her attention. She turned around, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. I offered my services to fix her garden for a reasonable price. She looked me up and down, unabashedly, and a half-smile formed on her lips.

—Do you have experience, young man? —she asked, with a slightly husky but melodious voice.

—Yes, of course —I lied without hesitation. Necessity is the mother of boldness.

We agreed that I would come the next day, Saturday, bright and early. Before I left, she said:

—Your face seems familiar.

—I live two blocks away —I replied.

She smiled again, this time more openly.

—I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow, then.

I arrived on Saturday with the first light of day. I got to work with an energy I didn’t even know I had. I pulled weeds, pruned the bushes as I thought it should be done, and mowed the lawn. The midday sun beat down when she came out and invited me to lunch. The table was set like for a king. She served me a huge portion of stew, rice, and a fresh salad, accompanied by a giant glass of passion fruit juice. I ate with a voracious appetite, almost desperately. She watched me in silence, with that enigmatic smile.

While I ate, she started asking me questions. She wanted to know about my studies, my family, how old I was. I answered with the innocence of my eighteen years, not seeing any double meaning. The house was immense, and she seemed to be always alone, so curiosity got the better of me, and I asked her about her husband and children. She told me she had been a widow for five years. Her husband had left her a good inheritance. She had a son in the United States and a daughter in Canada; both helped her financially but rarely visited. She was a beautiful woman, with money and alone. The thought crossed my mind like lightning, but I dismissed it. She was just a kind lady. I thanked her for lunch and returned to the garden.

By four in the afternoon, the work was done. The garden looked completely different. I knocked on the door to let her know. She came out, and her eyes widened. She was genuinely impressed. She said she wouldn’t have been able to do that in a week. Then she took out a wad of bills from her purse and extended it to me: five hundred dollars. I flatly refused. It was too much money. But she insisted, with a firmness that allowed no reply. “Take it, you earned it,” she said. Before I left, she asked to exchange phone numbers in case she needed anything else. I gave it to her, feeling the weight of the bills in my pocket. Five hundred dollars. In my country, that was more than a monthly salary. I went home, took a shower, and fell into bed, sleeping like a log.

The next day, Sunday, I woke up to several messages from her. The kitchen faucet had a leak; would I know how to fix it? Driven by gratitude, and without thinking of charging her, I told her I would go right away. When I arrived, she guided me to the kitchen. She stayed by my side while I crawled under the sink to check the pipes. But this time, her outfit was very different. She wore a short silk nightgown, very short, barely covering the essentials. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and her breasts, large and firm for her age, were clearly outlined, taking my breath away. Every time she leaned over to see what I was doing, the neckline of the robe opened, offering me a view that made me lose my concentration. Her toned, smooth legs were just inches from my face. The scent of her perfume, a sweet floral mix, filled the air. The job, which was simple, took me twice as long. My hands trembled, and I felt the heat rising up my neck.

When I finally finished and crawled out from under the sink, she smiled at me again.

—Thank you so much, Juan. You’re a very skilled young man.

She tried to pay me again, but I refused more firmly.

—No, ma’am, really. That was enough for yesterday. I do this gladly.

She stepped a little closer, her gaze fixed on mine.

—Alright —she said softly—. If you don’t want to accept this money for what you just did… accept it for what we’re going to do.

I froze. I didn’t understand.

—What do you mean? —I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

—Juan, I’m not stupid. I’ve seen how you look at me. Since yesterday at lunch, and especially today. You’ve undressed me with your eyes, and I don’t mind. I suppose I don’t look so ugly after all.

My face must have been a poem. She continued, her voice now a whisper full of longing.

—It’s been five years since my husband died. Five years without a man touching me, without feeling passion, the warmth of another body. I’m alone, and you’re a young man full of life. —She paused, and her hand rested on my arm—. I know about your problems at university. I saw how you ate yesterday. I can help you. I can give you everything you need so that you only worry about studying. A computer, money for your expenses, everything. I just ask that you try with me. That we have a relationship.

I looked at her. She was beautiful, yes. Desirable. But the age difference…

—You’re very pretty, ma’am, but… I don’t know if it would work. The age…

She let out a giggle.

—That doesn’t matter, my boy. Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of winning you over.

My mind was in a whirl. On one side, shock, prejudice. On the other, the harsh reality: poverty, hunger, the impossibility of working and studying at the same time. She was offering me an escape. An escape wrapped in silk sheets and expensive perfumes. I looked into her eyes, filled with a promise of experience and desire, and I made a decision. I accepted.

And I can only tell you that a woman with experience works wonders in bed. Or well, that’s what happened to me. What followed that conversation was an initiation. Elena, as she asked me to call her, stripped me of all my insecurities as a boy. She bought me the computer, new clothes, and every week she gave me money. My life changed radically. I could focus on my studies, and my grades soared.

Two years have passed since that day.

Which brings us to tonight. To celebrate the end of my exams, she decided we deserved a treat. A weekend at the most luxurious hotel in the city. Here we are, at the reception.

She smiles at the young receptionist and says, with her velvet voice and a spark of mischief in her eyes:

—Give me the farthest room, so no one can hear. My collagen makes a lot of noise.

I feel the blood rush to my face. The receptionist blinks, confused, and I can’t help but intervene, trying to sound casual, even though I’m laughing inside.

—That’s not true, miss.

Elena throws me a look filled with promises over her shoulder. I know that tonight, in that faraway room, she will once again show me exactly who she means by “The Noisy One.” And the truth is, I can’t wait.

The Weekend in the Forbidden Paradise

The penthouse room awaited us, a suite that looked like it was pulled from a magazine. Upon crossing the door, I was left breathless. A giant window offered a panoramic view of the illuminated city, a blanket of lights stretching to the horizon. The bed, immense and with silk sheets, invited me to lose myself in its softness. There was a jacuzzi in the bathroom, with bubbles bubbling as if telling me to immerse myself in them. Everywhere, luxury, opulence, the wealth I had only seen in movies.

Elena, however, moved around the room as if it were her home. She took off her shoes, let her hair down, and poured herself a glass of wine. She looked at me, smiled, and said: —What do you think? Do you like it? —It’s… it’s incredible, Elena. —Well, get used to it, my love. This is just the beginning.

That night, I discovered that Elena was not only a woman of passions but also a woman of exquisite tastes. She taught me how to drink wine, to distinguish flavors, to enjoy a good dinner. She hadn’t just given me money; she had given me an education in life, an education that went beyond books and classrooms. I felt like a boy who had been invited to a world that didn’t belong to him, a world that opened its arms and welcomed me warmly.

But the most important thing wasn’t the luxury. It was the intimacy, the connection we had forged. In that room, away from the world, we were just Juan and Elena, two people who had met in a moment of need and loneliness. She told me stories about her life, her husband, her children. Sometimes her eyes filled with deep sadness, a sadness that made me understand her solitude. I, for my part, told her about my studies, my dreams, my family. I told her about my mother, the mud hut where I grew up, the torn sandals, and the dinners of boiled leaves. She listened to me with an attention that made me feel important, that made me feel loved.

We made love, not just with passion but with tenderness. Elena was a woman who knew her body, who understood my fears and insecurities. She taught me how to love, how to kiss, how to feel. She stripped me of all my complexes and gave me the confidence I didn’t have.

The weekend was a dream, a mirage in the desert of my life. We laughed, talked, cried. And when we returned home, to reality, I was no longer the same boy who had arrived. I was a new man, a man who felt loved, a man who had a future.

The Shadows of Happiness

Another year passed. My studies at the university skyrocketed. I didn’t have to worry about money, hunger, or fatigue. Elena had given me a freedom I had never known. The computer she bought me was the best on the market, and my notes were impeccable. I was no longer the boy on the corner whom everyone looked at with pity. I was a promising young man with a bright future ahead.

But happiness had its shadows. My relationship with my family became distant. My mother, a woman of faith and principles, didn’t understand my change in life. She knew I couldn’t pay for university, but she didn’t know how I was managing it. I sent her money in secret, saying it was from my job at the university. But she, with a mother’s intuition, knew something was wrong.

My old friends, those who had seen me eat boiled leaves with salt, also drifted away. They saw my new clothes, my latest model phone, and wondered where I had gotten all that. They didn’t judge me, but the distance between us became unbridgeable. I couldn’t tell them the truth. The shame was a heavy burden I carried every day.

Elena, for her part, felt increasingly alone. Her children, who lived abroad, called her from time to time, but their conversations were superficial. They talked about their lives, their jobs, their families, but never about her. She was just the mother who sent them money.

One day, while we were sitting in the garden, she confessed something that broke my heart. “My children don’t love me, Juan. They love me for my money. But I love you. You are my only family, my only friend. You are all I have left.”

I hugged her. I didn’t know what to say. I felt immense pain for her, for the loneliness that overwhelmed her. But I also felt a deep fear. Fear of becoming what her children were, fear of being just a boy who took advantage of her money.

The Past Returns

Life, however, always finds a way to hit you when you least expect it. One day, I received a call from my mother. My sister, who lived in the village, had fallen ill. Without hesitation, I told Elena I had to leave. She looked at me, pain in her eyes, but let me go.

When I arrived at the mud hut, the contrast was brutal. The luxury of Elena’s house, the opulence of the hotel suite, all had vanished. In my place, I was once again the eighteen-year-old boy, with dirty clothes and an empty stomach.

My sister was seriously ill, but I was able to help. With the money I had, I took her to a doctor, bought her medicine, and fed her. My mother looked at me with a mix of pride and sadness. “Where did you get so much money, son? What are you doing?”

I couldn’t lie to her. I told her the truth. I told her about Elena, the garden, the stew, the money. I told her about the loneliness that united us, about the passion that consumed us, about the hope she had given me.

My mother looked at me, and her eyes filled with tears. Not of anger, not of disappointment, but of sadness. “Son, I don’t judge you. But this woman… this woman doesn’t love you. She uses you. And you, out of necessity, allow yourself to be used. I don’t want you to become what her children are. I want you to be a real man, a man who earns his living with his sweat, not with his body.”

Those words hit me like a punch to the stomach. The harsh reality overwhelmed me. I felt a deep shame, a shame that burned my soul. I left the house, not knowing where to go. I sat in a cornfield, looking at the horizon, and cried. I cried for my life, for my mistakes, for my mother, for Elena, for everything.

The Reunion with Truth

When I returned to the city, I went straight to Elena’s house. I entered without knocking and found her sitting in the garden, her head down, staring into space. When she saw me, she got up, came close to me, and hugged me.

—My boy, where have you been? —she asked, her voice trembling. —I was… I was at home, with my mother. —And what did she say? —she asked, with a look that pierced my soul.

I told her the truth. I told her what my mother had said. I told her the shame I felt, the fear that consumed me. She listened to me in silence, her eyes fixed on mine. When I finished, she looked at me, smiled, and said:

—Your mother is right, Juan. I don’t love you. I need you. I need you to feel alive, to feel young. I need you so I don’t feel alone. And you, my boy, need me to have a future. But that’s not love. That’s a transaction, a deal.

Those words hit me with the force of a hurricane. I felt like the world was crashing down around me. I had deceived myself; I had believed it was love, that it was a real connection. But deep down, I knew she was right. It was just a deal, a deal in which I sold my youth and my body in exchange for a future.

She sat on the porch, looking at me with a tenderness that made me cry. —But there’s something more, Juan. When I met you in the garden, I saw a hungry boy, a scared boy. Today, I see a man. A man with a bright future ahead. The education I gave you… it’s not just the education of books. It’s the education of life. I gave you the confidence you didn’t have, the strength you needed.

She handed me a check. A blank check. “Take it, my boy. Fill it in with whatever amount you want. Go and build your future. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

I refused. I couldn’t take the money; I couldn’t leave her. I felt immense pain, a deep sadness. But I also felt a release. A release from the shame, from the guilt, from the lie I had been living.

The End of the Road and the Beginning of a New Flight

The night grew long. We sat in the garden, under the cloak of night, and talked. We talked about everything. About life, love, loneliness, death. The conversation was honest, raw, and painful, but it was also liberating. By dawn, the decision was made. We had to part ways.

We hugged, and the embrace was different from all the nights before. It was a goodbye embrace, a gratitude embrace, an embrace of two souls that had found each other in a moment of darkness and had given light to one another.

I left the house with a broken heart but my head held high. I left with the clothes she had bought me, with the computer she had gifted me, with the money she had given me. But most importantly, I left with the lesson she had taught me: love cannot be bought or sold. It is earned with the heart, with the soul, with life.

Today, two years after that night, I am a new man. I graduated with honors, landed a good job at a technology company, and I’m about to marry a woman I love, a woman who knows me for who I am, not for what I have.

I have never forgotten her. Sometimes, at night, I close my eyes and imagine myself in the garden, with the moonlight bathing the grass. I picture her sitting on the porch, with silver hair and an enigmatic smile. I imagine her alone, but at peace.

The story of Juan and Elena was not a fairy tale; it was a real-life story, a story of two people who met in a moment of loneliness and gave light to one another. And the lesson she gave me, the lesson that led me to success, was not just from books. It was the lesson of life. The lesson that love has no price, and that freedom, like the flight of an airplane, has no limits.