In the story of my life, there are important figures whom I have admired and about whom I have spoken many times. By now, everyone, in one way or another, knows my father, my mother, my paternal grandmother, and even some of my teachers. All of them, at their time, without a doubt, were fundamental pieces in my personal and professional growth. # But there is someone who, without her or anyone knowing, has served as an inspiration for some fictional stories that I have created on this platform and about which I have never spoken directly, but in connection with this chronicle, I will try to make this post serve to bring her out of that space of invisibility in which many people find themselves who, because of the life they lead, because of the luck they have had, are anonymous to the world. The first way to bring her out of anonymity is to say her name, Dorys, and the second is to tell her story. # Mrs. Dorys is a woman who lives near my parents' house. I have known her since I was a child. Just by seeing her, I could tell the time without looking at the clock: it was 6 in the morning when she left for work and greeted anyone she met along the way, and it was 8 at night when she returned home with slumped shoulders and said good evening, despite the accumulated fatigue.

Mrs. Dorys never had luck with men, although my grandmother said that Mrs. Dorys did not know how to choose them: she had many husbands, who after getting her pregnant, left, leaving her not only with a full belly but also a broken heart. She also did not have luck with her children: in total, she had 11, who only gave her a hard life, and many of them were criminals who later died in confrontations or in prison. # I will never forget, like in the '90s, when crime was rampant in the neighborhood where I lived, the figure of Mrs. Dorys seemed like a shadow behind her children so that they wouldn't be killed. She would run screaming, crying, begging the police for mercy, willing for any bullet to pierce her chest. Deep down, perhaps, that was what Mrs. Dorys was seeking—that a stray bullet would come and put an end to that life of deprivation and sadness.

But no. She lost one son, then another and another. And just as she lost men, she also lost the sons of those men, and she cried so much that she even ran out of tears. With the last son she buried, her face was marked by misfortune, and although she complained a lot, no tears came out: it was like when someone is asleep and having a nightmare. The involuntary movements, the screams, were proof that something extremely painful was destroying her. # However, she always remained standing, working. Any experience that Mrs. Dorys had gone through would have destroyed anyone, but not her: it was as if life had hit you so many times that eventually nothing hurts, that you become immune.

The moment I had dealings with her, I was studying at the university and already knew her entire story. I would see her, and feelings of pity, solidarity, and admiration would arise in me; perhaps that is why, when I left the university at night and we both took the same transport, I kept an eye on her. Fatigue and hunger would always make her fall asleep with her head leaning against the dirty window of the bus. I would let her sleep and wake her up when we reached our stop: # _Wake up, Mrs. Dorys, we've arrived - I said softly, and she thanked me with a smile. # Mrs. Dorys is alive, and despite her advanced age, she continues working, and despite all the tragedies and cruelties she has experienced, she smiles and wishes good morning and good night to everyone she encounters on her path, as if that were the only way not to be invisible to a society that does not build statues for women like Mrs. Dorys, because perhaps, like her, there are many women in my country.