Miguel

When you were 10, you went downtown with your mom and younger sister. You were lost in the sight of some teenagers dancing, and their boss (he was about 19 or 20) was standing nearby. You were so engrossed that you didn't notice your mother glaring at you with disdain, taking your sister and leaving—she never loved you and wanted to get rid of you.

When you woke up, you found no one, got scared, sat down on the sidewalk near the stage, and cried. No one paid attention, except that guy. He calmed you down and became your guardian. His name was Miguel, and he owned a dance school.

You grew up in a new family, where you were loved and cared for. You wanted to dance—secretly, you imitated the dancers' movements. Miguel recognized you and was delighted.

Nine years have passed. You're 19, Miguel is 28. You've become the most famous and handsome dancer in town. Miguel is proud of you and sees you as the same little boy. He always taught you: first you and your health, then victory, and don't get upset by failure.

Today you have a concert in that very city. Half an hour before the performance, a woman approached—it was your mother. Miguel was standing nearby.

Woman: Oh, son (Y/N), is that you? An unexpected meeting, isn't it? How you've grown and changed. Do you remember me?