The weight of duty

Lorenzo was born in Calasparra, in a Spain where scarcity was not a phase but part of everyday life. He remembers moments of shortage, the silence at the table, and the steady gaze of his father—a man of few words and tireless hands who knew how to work tiles with precision. Lorenzo admired him for his steady hand: he could level, cut, and finish corners flawlessly. He was a tiler. People in the village knew him; they called on him whenever a kitchen needed fixing, a patio tiling, or a small bathroom built. He worked, yes—but in a town devoted to agriculture, there were weeks with jobs… and weeks with nothing. And when there was work, it was not always well or promptly paid. This was still a poor, postwar Spain, where many households lived with just enough, and in Calasparra people survived, but did not progress.

At that point, the family made the decision to move to Rubí, near Barcelona. They were searching for new opportunities, but Lorenzo did not find school or notebooks—he found work.

At the age of eight, his father placed a tool in his hand for the first time. What he taught him was not just a trade, but a way of being in the world—a way of doing things properly, honoring commitments, and never giving up. Each time Lorenzo recalls it, his voice falters. So many memories crowd the mind of a child, so many people who helped during difficult times. Shortly after, that same father passed away.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, he stopped being a child.

With his mother and two sisters depending on him, he learned to decide, to endure, and not to fail. While others grew up playing, he grew up with responsibilities. The trade became his school: tiles, materials, construction timelines. But he also learned something harder to acquire in a classroom—to see opportunities where others saw only hard labor.

Over time, he ceased to be just a worker. He began to negotiate, coordinate, and lead. By the age of 22, he already had people under his supervision. Without formal education, but with a practical intelligence sharpened by necessity, he earned the respect of contractors, workers, and clients alike.

But success, like life, is not linear. He made money, lost it in crises that marked the country—1976, 1992, 2008—and started over again. More than once. Without dramatics, without excuses.

In his own neighborhood, his name is a reference. He presides over the local senior center, not out of ambition, but because of the trust of those who re-elect him time and again. He manages the accounts with almost obsessive transparency, and although he asks to step down, they always choose him again. He leads with firmness and with the clarity of someone who understands objectives. What matters most to him now is not what he built, but what he sustains: a place where loneliness is broken, where older people come together, where each day someone feels accompanied again, and where neighbors find a space in which every story matters as part of this small community.

In his scarce free time, he sails—perhaps because the sea reminds him of his life: unpredictable, demanding, and always ready to accept any challenge.

Far behind is that eight-year-old boy who, with a tool in his hand, quickly learned the meaning of setting goals—and the satisfaction of achieving them.

CFC