Dark-skinned.
With a calm expression.
On the back, in almost faded ink, it said:
Tomás, 1991. My pride.
I broke down right there.
Not because of the money.
Not because of the house.
But because I suddenly understood that during all those months I had not been helping just a sick old woman.
I had been walking through the guilt of a mother.
And in her own way, she had tried to heal with me something she could never repair with her son.
The next day her children arrived.
Two well-dressed men and a woman wearing dark glasses, all in a hurry, smelling of expensive perfume and looking annoyed.
As soon as they saw me inside the house, one of them asked,
“And who are you?”
“Diego. I helped her.”
They didn’t even say thank you.
They started checking drawers, opening furniture, talking among themselves about selling the house, about “settling this matter quickly,” and about how much the cheapest funeral would cost.
Then I handed them a copy of the letter and the deeds.
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