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

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.

Inside were several bundles of neatly wrapped bills, the house deeds, and an old photograph.

In the photo, Doña Carmen appeared much younger, smiling beside a young man of about twenty.

Thin.

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.