My dad left when I was a little boy and I grew up with my

Host: The Havana evening was heavy with the scent of salt, citrus, and memory. The sun had long dipped beneath the sea, leaving a faint amber glow that shimmered off the tiled roofs and the wet cobblestones still breathing from the day’s heat.

A small courtyard café flickered with candlelight — the kind of place where the guitars sounded softer and the air seemed to carry stories more gently. A fan whirred lazily overhead, moving more time than air.

Jack sat at a table beneath the archway, shirt open at the collar, a glass of rum in front of him that caught the candlelight like liquid gold. Jeeny sat opposite, hair pinned up, the humidity curling stray strands that refused to obey.

They weren’t tourists tonight — they were witnesses. And the conversation, as always, began with a truth disguised as a quote.

Jeeny: “William Levy once said, ‘My dad left when I was a little boy and I grew up with my mother's family. There were foundations in the U.S. where Jewish people got together and sent money to Cuba, so we got some of that. We were a poor family, but I was always a happy kid.’”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “It’s strange — happiness built from scarcity.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the only kind that lasts. The kind that doesn’t depend on having, just on being.”

Jack: “You sound like a monk in a sundress.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And you sound like a man who forgot what gratitude feels like.”

Host: The sound of laughter drifted from a nearby table. Somewhere, a man strummed a guitar, his voice carrying an old Cuban melody — something between love and loss.

Jack: “You ever notice how people romanticize poverty after they’ve escaped it? It’s easier to call it ‘humble beginnings’ once you’re sitting in comfort.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But not all nostalgia is indulgence. Sometimes it’s respect — for the struggle that shaped you.”

Jack: “Respect, sure. But happiness in it?”

Jeeny: “Why not? Happiness isn’t comfort. It’s connection. Levy didn’t say he had plenty — he said he had people. His mother’s family, those donations, that sense of community. Love was the currency.”

Jack: (staring into his glass) “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It is simple. We just make it expensive.”

Host: A soft wind moved through the courtyard, stirring the candles, brushing the edges of their silence.

Jack: “You know what hits me about that quote? The part about strangers sending money. Jewish foundations helping Cuban families they’d never met. That’s humanity at its most invisible — kindness with no stage.”

Jeeny: “That’s the best kind. The kind that doesn’t need applause. It’s funny — we live in an age where everyone broadcasts their generosity. Levy grew up in a world where it arrived quietly, folded into envelopes, through walls of embargo and distance.”

Jack: “Faith without cameras.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The guitarist finished his song. For a moment, the silence was tender — heavy, but not sad. The air felt almost sacred.

Jack: “You ever think about how loss rewires people? His father left, but instead of breaking him, it built a different kind of foundation — one made of resilience.”

Jeeny: “And maybe joy. Because joy’s the rebellion of the abandoned.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s beautiful.”

Jeeny: “It’s true. When you lose something early, you learn to love what’s left fiercely. Every sunrise, every hand that stays — it all feels like grace.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice had softened — less debate, more confession. Jack looked at her, the flicker of the candle reflected in his eyes.

Jack: “You talk about loss like someone who’s made peace with it.”

Jeeny: “You talk about it like someone who still keeps score.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Maybe I do. My old man left too. And no one sent money — just silence.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are — not bitter, just bruised.”

Jack: “Bruised is just bitterness that learned manners.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Maybe. Or maybe it’s strength pretending not to care.”

Host: The candle between them flickered again, the flame bending, bowing, but refusing to die. The metaphor didn’t need to be spoken; it lived in the air between them.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about Levy’s story? It reminds me that joy doesn’t require permission. You can be poor, fatherless, uncertain — and still wake up happy because you chose to see light instead of lack.”

Jack: “You make happiness sound like an act of defiance.”

Jeeny: “It is. Always.”

Host: Outside, the sound of rain began — soft, then heavier, tapping on the tin roofs like a drumbeat of the past meeting the present.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what he meant — that life isn’t defined by what’s missing, but by how we fill the gaps. Love, kindness, even laughter — those were his wealth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s what made him happy. Not escape, but acceptance. He didn’t need a perfect life to feel full.”

Jack: “And maybe we’ve all forgotten how to live that way.”

Jeeny: “Because we mistake abundance for meaning.”

Host: The rain thickened now, falling harder, louder, until their voices had to rise above it.

Jeeny: “Levy’s story — it’s proof that the human spirit’s strongest in the cracks. When there’s less to lean on, you learn to stand taller. When love is scarce, you learn to love better.”

Jack: “And when you have nothing left, you start realizing that joy isn’t something you find — it’s something you decide.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host: The guitarist began to play again, slower now — a ballad soaked in memory. The candlelight danced across their faces, making everything glow with that melancholy warmth unique to nights when truth feels safe enough to speak.

Jack: “You know, for a poor kid who lost his dad, Levy sounds richer than most people I know.”

Jeeny: “Because happiness is ownership of self. He never let circumstance define him — he defined it.”

Jack: “So what you’re saying is… maybe the richest people are just the ones who remember their joy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because joy is the one thing no one can take — not fathers, not governments, not time.”

Host: The rain softened again, tapering into rhythm. The courtyard glistened under the lamplight, and the city beyond exhaled.

And in that quiet Havana night, William Levy’s words became more than a recollection — they became a testament:

That happiness is not the reward of abundance,
but the resistance to emptiness.

That kindness moves quietly —
through hands unseen, across oceans, through barriers —
building invisible bridges of humanity.

And that even in poverty,
the heart can choose to remain wealthy,
not in possession,
but in gratitude.

Host: The music faded.
The candle burned lower.
And Jack, at last, smiled —
not out of irony,
but out of recognition.

Outside, the rain began again —
gentle, endless, forgiving —
like joy returning
to a humble home.