Chapter 30: December, 2025
Nine Branches
Eleven years later
December 2025. It’s cold outside. The kind that cleans your face and forces you to wake up.
Eleven years later, I still think about that twenty-one-year-old kid who took a flight to Lübeck without understanding what it would cost. I’m not talking about the language—an English to survive and no German at all. I’m talking about everything else: the loneliness, the fear, the freedom, the people who save you without knowing it.
It wasn’t bravery. It was urgency.
I left my city because staying was no longer an option. There was no future there. Only a past I needed to forget. And Germany, back then, was a door I couldn’t let pass.
In Lübeck I spent six months working for three hundred euros a month. I lived off my savings from my job in Murcia.
Poor, but happy.
Meeting wonderful people, searching every corner to learn, expand horizons, practice languages.
After those first months I decided I had to move. The company where I started was the typical one that paid you the minimum to exploit you to the maximum, with obsolete technologies. I felt that if I didn’t move, I would end up becoming obsolete myself.
So, after three months of intense searching, I found a job in Berlin and moved with what I had. The first days I slept on the sofa of Alberto and Maricarmen, some friends from the village choir where I spent a summer years before.
From there on, everything was adventure. At a speed I never would have imagined if I hadn’t left my city.
In 2015 I started writing as a way to communicate with my siblings from a distance. What began as loose thoughts ended up becoming a two-year diary.
I wrote in April: “I miss my family. Although I’ll see them in less than thirty days, I’m starting to get used to the idea of seeing them twice a year. And, honestly, it’s hard. Being the oldest of a whole troop means that, without intending to, one is responsible. We need to be examples.”
Eleven years later, those words are still true. We see each other once or twice a year: at Christmas and at the May festivals. I’ve learned to savor every minute when we’re together. It’s not always easy. But time is the ultimate equalizer; the color of ideological or political garments doesn’t matter. What I value most is effort, saving, hard work. That teaches us to appreciate what we achieve.
Nine different companies. Seven of them in Germany. I’ve stumbled and gotten up, always from sanity without reaching absurdities.
I’ve managed to grow both personally and professionally, opening all kinds of horizons. I’m proud of the person I’ve become.
But none of this would make sense without you.
And to understand the present, sometimes you have to look at the past. Even if it hurts.
Where we come from
I won’t lie: we had a complicated youth. A youth that left marks on all of us. Each one carries them in their own way, some more visible than others.
But here we are. Standing.
Mom left too soon.
She would be fifty-eight years old today. Forty-nine when I wrote “Numbers,” that May 25, 2016. Thirty-seven when she left.
I was eleven years old.
I don’t remember when was the last time I said “mom.” I only remember her curly hair and her kind smile behind the door frame late at night. No time to say goodbye. No time for anything.
Dad was left alone with eight kids. The oldest sister was thirteen years old. And the youngest, two weeks.
Life forced him to move forward as best he could. And he did. Not always well, but he did.
Years later came the castle. That duplex where the seven of us ended up relegated to the garage, like a backyard. With a lock on the door. Forbidden to go up to the main rooms except to eat or sleep.
The disputes. The confrontations. The storms.
Maricarmen was sent to study far away. I was the next target. Dad overwhelmed not knowing what to do.
That was a hell I barely want to remember.
Until one day we returned to the apartment where we had grown up with mom. Our home. Do you know what it’s like to wake up on a weekend, see that it’s daytime and it’s raining, and be able to stay in bed? A memory of joy I will never forget.
But you already know that. You lived it with me. I barely keep clear memories of those teenage years. My mind did its job well: it erased as much as it could to help me heal. Maybe someday they’ll come back. Maybe it’s better if they don’t.
Dad, our relationship was difficult.
The era and context in which we had to live and confront each other didn’t help us. There were years of silence, of accumulated resentment, of words that weren’t said and others that were said too much.
But today the situation seems to have calmed down. We came to forgive each other. We talk to each other from time to time again. And that, after everything we’ve been through, is more than many achieve.
It’s not perfect, but it’s real. And the real has more value than any impossible ideal.
From such a murky past, I feel fortunate not to have ended up on any other path than this one: mine. And when I say “mine,” I mean ours. Because we all come from the same place, from the same walls, from the same sky of Caravaca.
Nine branches
Eight siblings from the same father and the same mother. Eight branches that grew together. And a ninth that came later. Nine in total. From the same tree, each one seeking its own sun.
Maricarmen, the oldest sister, who had to learn to be a mom very early. When she could, she latched onto Belgian lands and there she is now, with two children and a future to make.
I never thanked her enough for those years when she carried responsibilities that weren’t hers. She was a girl taking care of children. And she did the best she could.
Now it’s her turn to build her life. The one she chose. The one she deserves.
Juan, perhaps the one who has suffered the most. The past played bad luck on him and he has had to learn through many blows. Life has been especially unfair to him in many ways.
And so was I. As children I was a bully to him. I hurt him and that’s something I carry with me.
I hope he knows how to forgive me. I hope he doesn’t forget that I’m here for whatever he needs.
Fortunately, very recently, he found his place. He still has everything ahead of him. Few have the ability to get up after falling so many times.
Jesús, the one who seems to have the calmest temperament. He learned to surpass the storms of the castle without attracting too much attention. It fills me with pride to see who he is and what he has become: a speaker at international conferences and a fundamental help in the open source projects we have together.
We live close in Berlin and seeing him from time to time reminds me what it means to have family. I really enjoy when we meet to take walks through immense parks, walking for hours until the light goes away.
Thank you for those moments. Talking to you in person and knowing you’re there is a gift.
Ángel, the math teacher. One of the smartest in the family, without a doubt. As a child, he underwent an operation in which he almost completely lost one ear. But he overcame it, as he always has.
Calm, humble, he never liked to attract attention. And he’s always there when a sibling needs him.
And that’s worth more than any degree.
A clear example of commitment and passion for his work. He knew how to take advantage of opportunities as they came. Proof that effort yields wonderful fruits.
Lola, fighter and sensitive in equal parts. It’s impossible to deny what she lived through, how bad she had it as a child. She is perhaps one of those who have had the hardest time.
But you have to see her today.
Although we have different thoughts in some aspects, we can understand each other perfectly when it comes to humanity, help, family. And that’s what counts.
From the girl who suffered, a woman who helps others suffer less has been born.
That’s turning pain into purpose.
Cosme, the little one who now programs like the big ones. He also had a difficult childhood without understanding what was happening or what surrounded him. We all disappeared when he was still a child. That lack of affection left its mark.
Empathy is hard when, as a child, you don’t receive it. But he’s learning. And that’s what counts.
Fortunately he found his passion where I also found it: in software. I was able to guide him as an older brother, help him with all my being, just as I did with Jesús and later would do with Juan.
Watching him grow professionally has been one of my greatest satisfactions.
Anica, the youngest, the smartest. She has known how to turn rage into strength. Sharp and quick-witted like few others. And to think that not long ago she hated sports…
Perhaps it was my passion for boxing that I managed to transmit to her. Today she is a gym trainer, competes in weightlifting and runs ten kilometers from time to time.
It moves me to see her compete and help others. I really enjoy going with her for a sibling walk or to shop at Lidl.
Those simple moments are worth a lot.
Transmitting passion is one of the best inheritances one can leave. And she has made it her own.
And lastly there’s Antonio. Another branch, but from the same father. From the same tree after all.
We’ve barely seen each other a couple of times in our lives. He was lucky to arrive when the waters were already calmer. He has his whole life ahead of him to study, grow as a professional, and be whoever he wants to be.
And if someday he gets curious about those past thoughts, there’s a book I published in 2017 waiting for him.
Nine branches seeking their own sun. Nine ways of surviving the same past. Nine ways of moving forward.
The uncles
But family isn’t just siblings.
There are also those who have always been there, in good times and bad: the uncles from Caravaca. My uncle Cosme and my aunt Angustias.
You have always been there. For me and for all my siblings. To talk. To listen. To say what we needed to hear.
You were also there during that castle era. I’m not going to go there. I just want to tell you that your affection in those years helped me immensely.
But this time, I prefer to keep another memory.
I remember when I was fired from my first company in Berlin, after a little over a year. From one day to the next. Something smelled off to me, but I didn’t want to believe it. Looking back, I also made mistakes more than once.
“You got complacent,” uncle Cosme told me on the phone when I got to my apartment.
That word stuck with me. He was right. I had settled.
With my savings I could have held on for a few months. But then what? What if I didn’t find work? The uncertainty forced me to look at myself straight on and recognize my mistakes.
It was time to focus and surf the waves. Two weeks into searching—getting up at eight and not letting go of the laptop until five—I found work.
I couldn’t give up. And I didn’t.
And that’s just one memory of many. The long calls. The advice without asking. The feeling of having someone who always listens.
Thank you, uncles. For being there. For being that anchor that has always been in Caravaca waiting.
I love you.
Anna-Lena
And then there’s her. The one who appeared when I least expected it.
We met at a beer bar, among strangers, on any given night.
From the moment I saw you come in, we were talking for hours until you had to leave.
Then we started going to the cinema together, to other bars, to walk. And in the end we started seeing each other almost daily. A year later we decided to live together.
In February 2026 it will be eight years. Eight years building something together, day by day, without rush but without pause.
Thank you for being there. For putting up with me. For loving me as I am. For being my home in Berlin.
Because in the end, that’s what matters: having someone to share the journey with.
The most important thing
Eleven years are enough for a lot. To fall and get up. To get lost and find yourself. To learn that life is movement and that the key is knowing how to surf each stage.
Nobody said it was easy. And when you can’t take anymore, well, time for a well-deserved rest.
The future is uncertain, but what is universal is that our life is finite. I’m not talking about living as if there’s no tomorrow, but about not forgetting that time moves forward.
Ten years ago, in December 2015, I decided to spend Christmas alone in Berlin. I had no friends then. I didn’t do anything special those days.
I felt very alone.
From there dark thoughts were born that were captured in “Eyes on a Memory.” That year, 2016, was quite intense. I spent January writing two to four hours almost every day.
I think my body and mind were trying to tell me something. They needed to express themselves.
What joy to have created a book. Another project, another of so many already completed and those yet to be done.
Small victories that sweeten the effort.
But no victory tastes the same if there’s no one to celebrate it with.
And you are that someone: Dad. Maricarmen. Juan. Jesús. Ángel. Lola. Cosme. Anica. Antonio. Uncle Cosme. Aunt Angustias. And Anna-Lena.
You are the branches—and the roots—of this tree that I continue to be.
Physical distance doesn’t diminish love. The few times we see each other a year don’t reduce what you mean to me.
Thank you for being who you are. Thank you for still being there. Thank you for forgiving when forgiveness was needed. Thank you for getting up every time life knocked you down.
I’m proud to belong to this family.
And although time passes and each one follows their path, we will always be from the same tree. Mom is still here, in each one of us.
We will always be branches seeking our own sun.
With eyes on a memory, looking forward.
Work. Love. Dream. Smile.
But together.
