The Letter
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 clinic, 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, my vision blurring.
Then I kept reading.
Thirty-two years ago I had a son named Tomás. He was kind, stubborn, and good. He studied and worked at the same time, just like you do. One day he became ill with a lung disease—pneumonia that turned serious, the kind that the doctors said with treatment he could survive. But I didn’t have enough money for the treatment they recommended. So I made a cowardly decision: I used the savings he had set aside for his university education, thinking I would return them soon, thinking I would find a way to repay him. I never could. My son never blamed me. He only said he understood. But he died six months later.
