José Manuel García Torres - or "Pepe" to anyone who didn't want to waste half their breath saying his full name - didn't exactly have what you'd call a wild youth. While other guys his age were out getting drunk, chasing girls, and making spectacularly bad decisions, this cabrón was busy being the most boring human alive.
His friends were constantly on his ass about it: "Pepe, hermano, you need to live a little! Enjoy life like the rest of us mortals!" But nah, this dude was way too busy being a saint - working his ass off, going to church every damn Sunday, probably praying the rosary in his sleep. The guy was more devoted to God and his job than a monk with OCD.
But here's the thing about being a good boy for too long - eventually, you snap. And when Pepe finally decided to "enjoy life," he went from zero to absolutely fucked in record time.
You know how young guys are when they finally let loose - they don't do anything halfway. So our boy Pepe, after years of being celibate as a priest, ended up enjoying himself between the legs of Teresa Hernández. And not just any Teresa Hernández, mind you - this was the daughter of one of Veracruz's most notorious cartel families. The kind of girl whose dad probably had more guns than the Mexican army and less patience than a hungry toddler.
That unlucky pendejo knocked her up. One night of finally "living life" and boom - his entire existence got flipped upside down like a pancake. Teresa's family wasn't exactly the type to throw baby showers and welcome random church boys into the family with open arms. These people solved problems with bullets, not baptisms.
But here's where Pepe surprised everyone, including himself. Instead of running like any sane person would do when they accidentally impregnate a cartel princess, this loco decided to man up. He looked at this mess he'd created and said, "Fuck it, I'm staying."
They had a daughter - a gorgeous little girl who became the center of both their worlds. And José Manuel García Torres, the former saint turned accidental baby daddy, made a promise that would define the rest of his life: he would stand by Teresa and protect their daughter from all the mistakes they'd made as young, stupid parents.
So there you have it. You're probably wondering how the hell this telenovela backstory connects to anything, right? Well, relax your impatient ass.
That daughter they had? Her name was Isabel García Hernández. And that man standing in front of me - the one who'd suffered through cartel in-laws, unexpected fatherhood, and probably more drama than a Mexican soap opera - was now staring down at some random Spanish idiota who had the audacity to knock on his door to probably ask about his precious daughter. Mierda. No wonder he looked like he could murder me with his bare hands.
"¿Tus nombres?" he asked, still looking at me like I might be carrying a hidden weapon or planning to steal his TV.
"Hugo, señor," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady while he stared straight into my soul like some kind of human lie detector.
"¿Tienes un solo nombre como un cerdo?" he shot back, and I definitely didn't find the funny side of being compared to a fucking pig on someone's doorstep.
"Hugo González," I replied quickly, because apparently having one name makes you livestock in this household. This conversation was starting to feel less like a neighborly introduction and more like a police interrogation - I was half expecting him to ask for my papers and a DNA sample.
But then, like an angel descending from heaven to save my sorry ass, this beautiful woman appeared behind him. Teresa, I assumed - Isabel's mom and apparently my salvation.
"It is really beautiful to see another Latino in the neighborhood," she said with this warm smile that immediately made me feel like maybe I wouldn't die today. Her English was perfect, but with that soft accent that made everything sound nicer.
"Your name, mi amor?" she asked, and I could tell she was the type of mom who probably fed everyone who walked through her door.
"Hugo," I replied, and she actually smiled - like, a real smile, not the "I'm planning your murder" smile her husband was still wearing.
She turned to her husband and said, "Es un chico encantador. ¿No es así, amor?"
Mr. García nodded and mumbled something that sounded agreeable to please his wife, but I swear to God, I know when someone's trying to intimidate the living shit out of me with just their eyes. This dude was sending me telepathic death threats while his wife was being all welcoming and motherly.
But here's the thing - maybe he was right to be suspicious. Maybe I was the real threat here, because I had that one massive advantage that other neighborhood boys didn't have. If you haven't figured it out by now, you're just being dense: I speak fucking Spanish.
While they thought they could have private conversations right in front of me, I understood every single word. Their secret weapon was actually my secret weapon. Qué ironía, right?
"Hugo, come in," Teresa invited me with that same warm smile, gesturing toward their house like I was some long-lost family member.
And just like that, I was on track, baby. The González charm was working - well, half of it was working. Teresa loved me, and her husband... well, he looked like he was mentally measuring me for a coffin. But hey, 50% success rate was better than my usual 0%.
Time to see if I could survive long enough to actually meet Isabel without her dad deciding I needed to disappear permanently.