If you’re reading this from Facebook, you’re probably curious to know what really happened to that humble worker who was treated with such contempt. Get ready, find a comfortable place, and take a deep breath, because the truth behind this story is far more shocking than you can imagine and will leave you with a life lesson you’ll never forget.
The price of honest sweat
The afternoon sun beat down heavily on the city, painting the windows of the immense skyscrapers orange. Down below, on the sidewalk, the reality was very different. Dust, the noise of drills, and the smell of fresh cement filled the air. There stood Don Jacinto, a sixty-year-old man with a face weathered by decades of hard work under the sun.
His hands were a map of scars and calluses, testament to a life spent building the dreams of others. He wore his yellow hard hat, worn smooth by use, and blue overalls stained with paint and plaster. To the many who hurried past, in their impeccable suits and with their state-of-the-art phones, Jacinto was invisible. Or worse, he was a visual annoyance in their perfect cityscape.
But today, Jacinto had a special gleam in his eyes. He didn’t care about the back pain or the accumulated fatigue in his legs. Today was a different day. His youngest daughter, his pride, the girl for whom he had sacrificed everything, was graduating from university in two days. She was the first in the family to earn a professional degree.
He had saved every extra penny, working overtime, carrying sacks of cement when his younger coworkers had already given up. He wanted to look good for her. He wanted, for once in his life, not to look like the tired bricklayer, but the proud and elegant father his daughter deserved to see in her pictures
He patted the dust off his trousers, though he knew it was useless. The lime was ingrained in the fabric. He walked a few blocks toward the city’s most exclusive shopping district. There, the shop windows glittered like jewels.
The forbidden display case
He stopped in front of an imposing store. The gold sign advertised an internationally renowned brand. In the window, a mannequin wore a dark gray, Italian-cut suit with a silk blue tie that seemed to catch the light. It was perfect. Jacinto smiled, imagining himself in that suit, embracing his daughter, diploma in hand.
He knew it would be expensive, but he had the money. In his inside shirt pocket, wrapped in a handkerchief, he carried a wad of thick bills, the fruit of his savings and a recent business deal that no one at the construction site knew about.
He pushed open the heavy glass door. The air conditioning blasted gently, carrying with it the scent of leather and expensive perfume. The contrast with the heat outside was stark. His heavy, dirty work boots made a dull thud, a “clunk-clunk” that echoed in the almost reverential silence of the shop.
Immediately, the atmosphere changed. The shop wasn’t empty. In the back, two women were trying on silk scarves. And behind the main counter, there she was. Lorena. A young woman with a rigid posture, dressed in an impeccable black tailored suit and stiletto heels. Her hair was pulled back in a bun so tight it seemed to stretch the skin of her face.
Lorena looked up. Her expression shifted from professional indifference to a grimace of utter disgust in a matter of seconds. She didn’t see a client; she saw filth. She saw someone who, by her standards, didn’t belong in that world of marble and dim lighting
Jacinto, oblivious to the initial hostility, advanced with a shy smile. He felt out of place, yes, but his purpose was stronger than his insecurity. He approached the mannequin in the gray suit.
An unfortunate encounter
“Good afternoon, miss,” said Jacinto in his hoarse but kind voice.
Lorena didn’t return the greeting. She stepped out from behind the counter at a brisk pace, as if she wanted to intercept a threat. She stood in front of him, crossing her arms, creating a physical barrier between the worker and the merchandise.
“Can I help you with anything?” she asked. Her tone wasn’t helpful, it was interrogative. She spoke with a heavy accent, slurring her words with an arrogance that cut through the air.
Jacinto, with his characteristic humility, pointed to the suit.
—Yes, excuse me, dear. I was looking at this dress here. It’s for a very special occasion, my daughter’s graduation. I wanted to know…
Before he could finish his sentence, Lorena let out a short, dry, humorless laugh. She glanced at Jacinto’s boots, which had left a faint trail of white dust on the Persian rug in the entryway.
“Sir, please step back from the merchandise,” she said, raising her voice enough for the other customers to look. “You’re going to stain the fabric. That wool is imported, and I seriously doubt you can afford the dry cleaners if you get it dirty with… what you’re wearing.”
Jacinto felt a heat rise up his neck. It wasn’t shame for being a worker, it was pain from the treatment he’d received. Nevertheless, he kept his composure.
“My hands are clean, miss. I washed them before leaving the construction site. I just want to know the price.”
Lorena sighed, rolling her eyes impatiently.
—Look, sir. This isn’t the place for you. There are secondhand stores three blocks south. Here we sell luxury. We sell exclusivity.
—Money is the same everywhere, isn’t it? —Jacinto replied, looking her in the eyes with a firmness that disconcerted her for a moment.
That’s when the situation escalated. Lorena, feeling challenged on her own turf, decided to be cruel. She wanted to humiliate him, she wanted to see him leave with his head down.
“Do you want to know the price?” she said with a mocking smile. “Fine.”
He approached the label, looked at it, and then looked back at Jacinto with utter contempt.
“Even after four years working in construction, I wouldn’t earn enough to buy this suit, grandpa. So please leave before I call security.”
The words echoed through the shop. The two women in the back let out nervous but knowing giggles, covering their mouths. Jacinto froze. Not because of the price, but because of the gratuitous cruelty. He lowered his gaze for a moment, observing his calloused hands. Those hands that had built buildings, hospitals, and schools.
She felt a tightness in her chest, but said nothing. She turned around slowly, hearing the laughter behind her again. She walked toward the door, each step feeling heavier than the last.
But just before leaving, he stopped. His hand hovered over the glass doorknob. Something inside him shifted. It wasn’t pride, it was dignity. He remembered who he truly was and what he had signed that very morning before a notary.
The story is about to take a turn that no one in that store expected.
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