That man sold his own blood so that I could study. Today, when I earn a hundred thousand a month, he came to me to ask for money and I didn’t want to give him a penny.

When I was accepted into college, all I had was a piece of paper that said I had passed and a burning dream of getting out of misery. Life was so hard that if there was meat on the table, even the dogs in the neighborhood barked with excitement.

My mother died when I was ten, and my biological father disappeared long before I could even remember his face. The only one who took me in was a man who was not of my blood: my stepfather, or rather, the man who was my real father.

He was my mother’s childhood companion. He made a living pushing a wheelbarrow or a motorized bicycle, and he lived in a ten-meter rented room, there on the riverbank. When my mother left, it was he, despite his own hardship, who said, “The boy is coming with me.” And in all my years of study, that man worked his head to death, he went into debt up to his neck, so that I wouldn’t leave school.

Once, I needed money for a course and I was embarrassed to ask him. That night, he gave me some crumpled bills that smelled like a hospital and said in a low voice: “It’s because your father went to sell blood. They gave a little money. Here, my son.”

That night, I cried like a baby. Who lets their own blood be drawn over and over again just to maintain the studies of a child who is not even of their own blood? Well, my old man did it throughout high school. No one ever knew, only the two of us.

When the letter arrived from the university in Brasilia, he hugged me and almost cried with pride. “You’re a genius, boy,” he said. Put your heart into this. I can’t accompany you all your life, but you have to study to get out of this life.”

In college, I got by with jobs in cafeterias, tutoring, whatever. But he, stubborn, did not stop sending me his help every month, even if it was the last thing he had left. I told him not to send it, and he replied: “The father’s money is the right of the son, my child.”

When I graduated and got a job in a multinational, my first salary was five thousand reais. I sent him two thousand at once. But he did not want to accept them. “Save that,” he told me. You’re going to need it. I’m already an old man, why so many things?”

Almost ten years passed, and I was already a manager. He earned more than thirty thousand reales a month. I thought about bringing him to live with me in the city, but he didn’t want to. He said he was already used to his simple life and didn’t want to be a burden. Since I knew his stubbornness, I did not insist.

Until one day he appeared at my house. He was skinny, sunburned, with completely white hair. He sat embarrassed on the edge of the sofa and said to me almost in a whisper: “My son… your father is already old. My sight doesn’t give me, my hands tremble and I get sick often. The doctor says I need surgery that costs about twenty thousand. I have no one else to turn to… That’s why I came to borrow from you.”

I remained silent. I remembered the nights I made myself tea when I got sick. The times I would arrive soaked from having taken the backpack I had forgotten at school. The early mornings when I found him sleeping in an old chair, waiting for me to return from my classes.

I looked him straight in the eye and said quietly, “I can’t. I’m not going to give you a dime.”

He was silent. His eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t get angry. He nodded slowly and stood up, like a beggar who had just had the door slammed in his face.

But before he left, I took his hand and knelt down.

“Dad… You are my real father. How are we going to talk about debts between father and son? You gave me your whole life, now let me take care of you for the rest of yours. Before, you said: ‘The father’s money is the son’s right’; Now, my money is your right.”

Then yes, she collapsed and cried. I hugged him tightly, like a child frightened by a nightmare. His back, pure bone and trembling, made me cry too.

Since that day, he has lived with us. My wife did not put up any obstacles; on the contrary, he takes care of it with affection. Although he is already an old man, he still helps as much as he can at home, and when we can, we go for a walk or travel together.

Many times I am asked: “And why do you treat your stepfather so well, if when you were studying he could hardly give you anything?” I just smile and answer: “He paid for my studies with his blood and with his years. We are not of the same blood, but he loved me more than a real father. If I don’t take care of it, then what is life for?”

There are debts in this world that cannot be paid with money. But when it comes to gratitude, it’s never too late to pay… complete, sincere and with the heart first.