And you are wearing the green dress.
The entire room falls quiet again.
Below the photo, in elegant lettering, is a plaque:
FOR THE WOMAN WHO BUILT EVERYTHING THAT BROUGHT US HERE
You press both hands to your mouth.
But they are not finished.
Marco nods toward the side entrance. A man steps forward holding a folder, followed by an older woman in a navy suit whom you vaguely recognize from one of the neighborhood housing offices. Your confusion deepens until Marco explains, voice shaking, that over the past year, he and Lara had quietly been planning something for you. Not because they saw you as helpless. Not because they thought gratitude could be paid off like debt. But because they wanted your next years to hold less weight than your last ones had.
Inside the folder, he says, are the papers to a small house.
Not a mansion. Not an obscene display. A modest, sunlit home in a neighborhood fifteen minutes from the market, with a tiny front garden, a tiled kitchen, and two bedrooms so that if you ever wanted to host family, or simply have a room that did not also function as storage, you could. It has been purchased in your name. No loans. No tricks. No conditions.
