I used to think this was my grandfather, Tomas. I found it in a pile of pictures in my aunt’s house in Havana. I’d never met him, but I knew of him. He was a cop, who beat his kids, cheated on his wife, and left them. My father almost never spoke of him. I thought he looked like my half-brother.
On my nephew’s birthday I sent this image to him. “Here’s a picture of your great-grandfather.” His father had to set me straight. “That’s Botoño!”
Botoño was the man who married my grandmother after my grandfather left her with four kids and no way to support herself. She was taking in laundry and reading fortunes to stay alive. My father had to hustle and find money to help the family get by. But Botoño married her and helped her raise her children. Everyone who knew him spoke fondly of him. My father loved him. My cousin learned everything from him as a child.
They were both cops, but that is where the similarity ended.
My cousin tells the story of the first time he put on his highway patrol uniform. He was wearing the same boots. When my father saw him a tear came to his eye. He said, “You remind me of your grandfather.”
I have no picture of Tomas.