Once, as we were leaving the hospital, she took my hand and said to me in a soft voice:

I’m not leaving it to you because you cleaned my house. I’m leaving it to you because you returned my dignity when I already felt like a burden. I’m leaving it to you because in my last months you were more family than blood. And I’m leaving it to you also for Tomás, because when I saw you walk through that door, with your worn backpack and your tired hands, it felt as if he came home for a little while.

I could barely see through my tears.

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and continued.
Don’t use this to mourn me too much. Use it to finish your studies. To sleep without owing rent. To eat better than I sometimes saw you eat when you thought I didn’t notice. And if someday you have your own kitchen, I want you to make chicken broth and remember this old woman who loved you the way she didn’t know how to love in time.

With gratitude,
Carmen Ruiz

I stayed still for a long time.

I don’t know how long.

I only remember the distant noise of the alley, a dog barking outside, and the unbearable weight of that letter on my knees.

Then I stood up, went to the wardrobe, and found the false drawer.

Behind it was the metal box.

I opened it with the key.

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