There are things we inherit that never appear in a will.
My grandfather didn’t leave me land or money. He left me something heavier.
A silver medal.
It wasn’t polished when he gave it to me. The surface was worn in some places, darkened in others — that patina that only forms over years of being held, rubbed between fingers in prayer or resting against a man’s chest while he works.
On one side is the face of Christ, crowned with thorns. His eyes lift slightly — not in defeat but in resilience. Behind his head, rays of light spread outward, reminding us that suffering and light can share the same space.
On the other side is the Virgin Mary, serene and steadfast, surrounded by words in Latin that translate to:
“Queen conceived without original sin, pray for us.”
It is a Miraculous Medal. A symbol of protection. Of faith under pressure.
My grandfather wore it for years — at work, in sickness, in the quiet responsibilities of raising a family along the border between Texas and Mexico.
He didn’t speak much about theology. Men of his generation rarely did.
But he understood protection.
And before he left, he placed that medal in my hand.
There was no speech. No dramatic farewell. Just a silent transfer.
In that moment, I didn’t fully grasp what he was giving me.
I only knew that something important had changed.
The years passed. Life sped up — responsibilities, movement, seasons of intensity and distance. Changing cities. Assignments succeeding one another. Boxes being packed and unpacked.
I didn’t wear the medal.
I kept it — protected, but out of sight. I told myself I was taking care of it. Deep down, I was also keeping the memory at a distance.
I never forgot it.
At some point, I came to think it was lost — misplaced in the movement of years.
Yesterday marked the anniversary of his passing.
I don’t usually stop on that date.
I rarely think about the exact day.
I think about his life.
I think about the way he carried himself. The firmness in his voice. The discipline in the small things. The lessons he taught without announcing he was teaching.
As a child, I watched him work.
As a young man, I listened to him more attentively.
As an adult, I started to understand.
Yesterday, while cleaning at home, I found the medal at the bottom of a drawer.
For a long moment, I stood still.
Not because of the anniversary.
But out of recognition.
He left decades ago.
But what he placed in my hand has never gone away.
Later that same day, I opened a wooden box that was given to me years ago. Inside, I keep commemorative coins collected throughout my career — small circles of metal marking completed chapters, assumed responsibilities, earned trust.
Without ceremony, I placed his medal inside that box.
For the first time, the beginning of my life and its culmination stood side by side.
The medal was never meant to be worn as armor.
It was meant to become part of me.
Some inherit fortunes.
I inherited conviction — the conviction to endure, to protect, and to stand firm when others depended on me.
And in moments of stillness — when the world quiets and memory crosses the Río Grande — I understand that the true gift was never the medal itself.
It was the standard it represents.
To endure.
To protect.
To stand firm.
Some legacies never fade.
Leo Silva is a former special agent in charge of the DEA (Monterrey Office) and author of Reign of Terror and El Reinado de Terror. With decades of experience on the front lines of the fight against transnational cartels, Silva offers readers an intimate look into some of the most dangerous operations aimed at high-level leaders and organizations.
Since the publication of his memoirs, Silva has become a recognized voice in the media and speaking circuit. His story and analysis have been featured in interviews with Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Jorge Ramos on Univision (Así veo las cosas), three-time Emmy Award-winning journalist Paco Cobos (La Entrevista), and Ana Paulina (Voces con Ana Paulina), where his participation garnered millions of views. He has also been invited on prominent platforms such as the podcast Cops and Writers with Patrick J. O’Donnell, Game of Crimes with Steve Murphy, and Called to Serve with Roberto Hernández.
Through his books, lectures, and media appearances, Silva continues to shed light on the realities of organized crime, the work of law enforcement, and the human cost of the war on drugs, while sharing lessons of resilience, leadership, and truth.
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