Everyone in the classroom sighed when I walked in. Again. Always again.

“Mr. Martínez, do you have any idea what time it is?” Ms. Ramírez’s voice cut through the air like a sharp knife.

“I’m sorry, teacher,” I muttered, dragging my feet to my desk in the back, feeling all the eyes on my back.

“This is the third time this week, Javier. What are we going to do with you?”

I didn’t answer. I never did. What could I say? That I had gotten up at five in the morning? That I had walked seven kilometers from my grandmother’s house after making her breakfast, giving her medicine, and making sure she was comfortable in her chair? No. That would only earn pity, and I didn’t want pity.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated, dropping my worn-out backpack on the desk.

One day, Miguel, the boy who sat in front of me, turned to me during recess.

“Hey, why are you always late?” he asked, chewing an apple. “My dad says that people who are always late won’t get anywhere in life.”

I gritted my teeth.

“Your dad doesn’t know me.”

“Then why? Do you stay up late playing video games?”

I laughed bitterly.

“Yeah, of course. Video games.”

The truth was more complicated. Mom worked double shifts at the hospital, and Dad had left three years ago. My grandmother couldn’t be alone. She had advanced diabetes and could barely move from her bed to her chair. I was all she had in the mornings.

“Javier, good morning, my dear,” she had said that same morning, her voice shaky but warm. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well, Grandma. How did you wake up?” I answered, preparing her oatmeal just how she liked it, no lumps, with a touch of honey.

“Better now that you’re here. You’re an angel, you know that?”

“Angels aren’t late for school,” I joked, though the knot in my stomach tightened even more.

After giving her medicine and helping her get dressed, I ran out. Seven kilometers aren’t much when you’re young, Mom used to say. But with a backpack full of books and an empty stomach because there was no time to eat, those seven kilometers felt like seventy.

The day everything changed was a Friday. I arrived late, as usual, drenched in sweat.

“Javier Martínez, to the principal’s office. Now,” Ms. Ramírez ordered, her tone leaving no room for argument.

I walked down the hallway feeling like I was headed to the slaughterhouse. Principal Morales was known for his strict hand. I sat in front of his desk, bracing for the worst.

“Javier, this can’t continue,” he began, removing his glasses. “Your grades are excellent, you’re a good boy, but this chronic lateness…”

“I know, Principal. I’m sorry,” I said.

“What’s going on? I want the truth.”

Something in his voice, the way he leaned forward, made the words come out before I could stop them.

“I take care of my grandmother in the mornings. She lives seven kilometers from here. There’s no one else. I walk from her house to here. I run when I can, but…”

I stopped, embarrassed to have said so much.

Principal Morales was silent for a long moment.

“Why didn’t you say anything before?”

I shrugged.

“I didn’t want it to be a problem.”

“Javier,” he sighed, “come Monday morning. We’re going to fix this.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but on Monday, when I arrived at school (late, of course), there was a brand-new bicycle chained in front of the principal’s office with a note:

“So you can arrive on time. Good children and grandchildren deserve a chance.”

My eyes filled with tears as I held the note. Ms. Ramírez stood at the office door.

“The principal and some teachers collected for this,” she said softly. “I’m sorry for not asking before, Javier. We all have our battles.”

From that day on, I arrived early to class. And when someone asked why I was smiling so much, I would just say:

“Because there are good people in the world. That’s all.”