Chapter 1: The Boy Who Said Yes98Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrKdjQlwSK1
In 1974, if you wanted an answer in Santiago, you had to find it in a book.
Our next-door neighbors had fifteen volumes of the Barsa Encyclopedia.
My father was a deeply pragmatic man who believed education was worth paying for. Encyclopedias, however, were where he drew the line. Every so often, smooth-talking door-to-door salesmen would arrive at our house in Ñuñoa, pitching the latest fifteen-volume set as the key to his children's academic success. My father saw the trap clearly: even if he bought them, the same salesman would be back every other year insisting that the old volumes were now obsolete and that we needed the updated edition. To him, it was a money pit.
So, he struck a business arrangement with our next-door neighbors—a strict, devoutly Catholic family of Basque origin.
They had already bought an immaculate, fifteen-volume set of the Barsa Encyclopedia. My father agreed to pay them a handsome monthly fee so my brother and I could do our homework in their living room after school. For him, paying for access to a neighbor’s set was a brilliant shortcut; for them, the extra cash was more than welcome.
The terms, however, were non-negotiable. The Basque family observed a sacred afternoon siesta between two and four, so we were strictly forbidden from knocking before four o’clock. We had a precise two-hour window—from four to six—to do our homework in their living room before the family gathered for la once, Chile’s traditional tea time.
For eight or nine months, our routine remained unbroken. We sat in their formal living room, scribbling history notes under the watchful, uneasy eyes of her parents. They were naturally suspicious people, fiercely protective of their teenage daughter, Elianita.
Over time, however, the silent awkwardness gave way to friendship. There was nothing romantic or secret between Elianita and me. We were just two fifteen-year-olds finding moments to talk whenever we could. While her parents saw us as potential trouble, we were simply neighbors passing the time.
Near the end of the school year, Elianita found a moment to talk to me alone. I expected nothing out of the ordinary.
She stood in the hallway, trembling, her voice barely a whisper. She told me she was pregnant. Her parents didn’t know yet, and she was consumed by absolute terror.
At fifteen, I had no wisdom to offer. I didn’t know how to comfort her, so I stood there in complete silence.
Then, looking at me with desperate, pleading eyes, she asked for a favor:
“When the baby is born... will you be the godfather?”
“Sure, no problem,” I replied instantly.
To me, being a godfather sounded like a noble, high-society title. Raised in a secular Jewish home, I had never set foot inside a Catholic church. I knew nothing of moral obligations, baptismal promises, or the lifetime financial expectations attached to the role.
If you had asked me about the Chilean national soccer team, I could have recited Carlos Caszely’s or Elías Figueroa’s career stats down to the minute. But Catholic theology? I was at absolute zero.
In fact, my entire understanding of the word godfather came from the movies. Just months earlier, I had gone to the Teatro Metro on Bandera Street, desperate to see Marlon Brando in The Godfather. The ticket seller refused to let me in because I was underage. I even tried to bribe him with a crisp ten-escudo bill, but he didn’t budge.
So in my clueless fifteen-year-old brain, being a godfather meant stepping into something legendary and cool—closer to a Hollywood Don than a church sacrament.
I couldn’t wait to share my grand achievement.
That night, sitting down for dinner, I proudly announced to my parents and brother that Elianita was expecting, and that I had graciously accepted the honored duty of becoming her child’s godfather.
My father instantly choked on his food.
Chapter 2: Past Ten
My mother rushed over, frantic, and patted my father’s back as he coughed violently.
What followed was an intense, high-stakes interrogation across the dinner table.
"Is it yours?!" my father demanded, his eyes wide.
"No! Absolutely not!" I insisted.
I had to repeat it ten different ways before the truth finally sank in. I had nothing to do with it. I was just the idiot next door who said yes.
Once my father realized I wasn't the father, his panic shifted into pure fury at how ridiculously ignorant and naive I was.
He stared directly at me, his eyes narrowing. "Your total lack of common sense borders on the pathological!" he said, before slamming his hand on the table. "You are walking back over there. Right now. And you are taking it back."
I panicked—not so much for my own skin, but mostly for hers. "Dad, please! It’s past ten at night! They are extremely strict, and if I show up now asking for Elianita, they might hurt her or do something terrible to her. Give me whatever punishment you want, but let me tell her tomorrow before I leave for school!"
My father was completely beyond the point of negotiation. "No! You go right now! AHORA!"
There was no arguing. Five minutes later, terrified of what might happen, I was standing outside the neighbor’s house, cold sweat on my palms. I tapped on the glass of Elianita’s window.
A moment later, she appeared at the door, staring at me as if I had completely lost my mind.
"Are you crazy?" she whispered frantically. "What are you doing here at this hour? If my parents see you—"
"I can't be the godfather," I blurted out, cutting her off. "My dad made me come back. The deal is off."
The look on her face was a mix of confusion and heartbreak, but I didn't stay long enough to process it. I turned around and sprinted back to my house.
That night broke everything.
I never found out when or how Elianita finally broke the news to her parents. But from that moment on, I was placed on her father's absolute blackest list.
She was banned from speaking to any boy in the neighborhood. Whenever her father caught sight of me on the street, he threw me a glare that could curdle milk. He knew perfectly well I wasn't the guy who got his daughter pregnant—he knew who the real father was. But in his eyes, I was the delinquent who showed up late at night and took back a sacred promise I had made to his terrified daughter.
The final blow came the next afternoon.
The neighborhood mailman arrived at our front door, handing over an unmarked envelope.
"No stamp on this one," the mailman noted with a shrug. "Your neighbors asked me to deliver it to you guys."
That night, my father opened it. Inside was the exact cash amount he had paid them at the beginning of the month for our encyclopedia privileges.
No letter. No explanation. Just the money returned in full.
My father, who calculated life down to the last decimal, stared at the bills. It was the middle of the month. They could have kept half for the days we had already used the books, but the Basque father was too proud—and too furious—to keep a single cent of our money.
My father looked at the cash, shrugged, and slipped it into his pocket.
"Well," he said dryly, "math isn't his strong suit."
And just like that, our access to the Barsa Encyclopedia was permanently revoked.
Epilogue: Less Than a Day
A few months later, as Elianita’s pregnancy grew undeniable, my father bought a small ranch out toward Puente Alto, and we packed up our home.
We moved away before the baby was born, leaving the old neighborhood, the strict Basque family, and the fifteen volumes of unused knowledge behind us forever.
I never saw Elianita again. I never learned if she gave birth to a boy or a girl, if she stayed in Santiago, or if life was kind to her in the years that followed.
Decades have passed since that year in Ñuñoa. I've lived a full life, traveled far, and learned the true weight of adult promises. Yet, whenever I spot a heavy set of old encyclopedias or hear the theme music from The Godfather, I am instantly transported back to 1974.
I smile thinking about that fifteen-year-old kid who offered ten escudos for a movie ticket he couldn't buy, accepted a godchild he wasn't allowed to keep, and tried to navigate a bizarre adult world on a cold night in Ñuñoa.
My career as a godfather had lasted less than a day.
Not a bad record, considering I had no idea what I was getting into.98Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDxp0qrwWRF
and then Add to home screen.