The funeral home had taken her a few hours earlier, and her children—whom I had never seen—had said on the phone that they wouldn’t arrive until the next day.

The neighbor handed me a yellowed envelope.

“She told me to give this only to you.”

My name was written on it in Doña Carmen’s trembling handwriting.

I sat on the bed and opened it with shaking hands.

Inside there was a single letter and a small key.

The letter said:

Diego,

If you’re reading this, then I’m gone, and I can finally tell you the truth without you interrupting me with your habit of saying, “Don’t worry.”

Yes, I owed you money. A lot. More than a student should lose because of a stubborn old woman like me. And every time I saw you sweeping, cooking, taking me to the hospital, or coming back with groceries even when I had nothing to pay you, I felt ashamed. Not because you helped me, but because your hands reminded me of someone I failed too.

I had to pause for a moment.

Then I kept reading.