One afternoon on a construction site on the outskirts of Paris, as the sunlight began to fade, the sounds of shovels mixing concrete and the clash of bricks still echoed in the air.
Miguel — a worker in his thirties — quickly wiped the sweat from his brow and sat down near a pile of bricks. His life was simple, almost austere: work hard all day, then return in the evening to a small rented room in a working-class neighborhood, eat a modest meal and fall asleep immediately to face the next day.
Miguel had grown up in an orphanage in Paris. From a very young age, he knew that he had been abandoned in front of the gate of the center. He had no memory of his parents, no idea of his origins. Over time, he had become accustomed to living without question, as if his past was a double-locked door.
That day, as the workers began to put away their tools, a little boy of about eight or nine years old timidly approached the gate of the construction site. His clothes were dirty, his shoes worn, and his red eyes seemed to betray long minutes of crying.
“Sir… Do you have a phone? Can I call? I’m lost…
Miguel looked around. The site was still busy, but everyone was busy. After a short moment of hesitation, he took his old phone out of his pocket.
“Do you know the number?”
The boy nodded and slowly recited the numbers, as if he feared he was wrong.
Miguel dialed the number and handed him the phone. At the other end of the line, a woman’s voice trembled, hurried, and calmed down as soon as she heard the child call her “Mommy.”
In a few seconds, the world seemed to be suspended.
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