The priest looked at her strangely, as if he were seeing a ghost or having a revelation. “Madam… you won’t believe this, but ten minutes ago, while I was praying the rosary, I felt a tremendous urge to open the door. I felt someone coming. What happened, Mother? You’re soaked, although…” He touched her shoulder and frowned. “Your clothes are dry, but you’re trembling.”
"It's a long story, Father. I was kicked out of my house. I have nowhere to go." "Come in, come in, don't even say it. Here, the house of God is everyone's house."
That night, Mercedes slept in the small hostel the church maintained in the back. It wasn't a mansion in Lomas de Chapultepec. The walls were bare brick, there was dampness on the ceiling, and she could hear the trucks passing by on the avenue. But the bed was clean, the sheets smelled of Zote soap, and for the first time in years, no one looked at her with disdain. Sister Clara served her a bowl of piping hot Tlalpeño soup and gave her a sweet roll. "Eat, dear mother, you look like you're hanging by a thread."
Mercedes ate her meal weeping, but tears of gratitude. Before closing her eyes, she remembered the man's words in the park: "Tomorrow, before the clock strikes twelve, you will receive a call ." Could it be true? Or was it just the desperate wish of an abandoned old woman? "Lord Jesus, if it was you, don't let go of my hand, because I'm very afraid," she whispered, clutching her rosary.
