Then I handed them a copy of the letter and the deeds.
The daughter was the first to go pale.
“This can’t be legal.”
“Yes, it is,” I said with a calmness I didn’t know I had. “Your mother had everything notarized three months ago. I went with her.”
It was true.
One afternoon she had asked me to take her to see “a lawyer” downtown. I thought it was just some routine paperwork.
It wasn’t.
The eldest son clenched his teeth.
“You manipulated a sick old woman.”
My blood boiled, but before I could respond, the neighbor across the street spoke from the doorway with a firm voice:
“The only thing that young man did was take care of her when none of you bothered to come see her.”
A heavy silence filled the room.
Doña Carmen’s children understood they had little to do there.
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They left with the same hurry they had arrived with.
They didn’t even ask how her final days had been.
After the funeral, I returned to the house alone.
I sat at the table where I had served Doña Carmen so many meals.
I opened the letter again.
And I cried until my head hurt.
With that money I paid my university debts.
I fixed the roof of the house.
Painted the walls.
Replaced the gas installation that had been dangerous.
I kept the old radio, the faded photographs, and the wooden bed, because throwing them away felt like erasing something sacred.
I continued studying.
More peacefully.
With less hunger.
With less fear.
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