Once, as we were leaving the hospital, she took my hand and said to me in a soft voice:
“Son… I don’t know why God put you in my path,” she said in such a weak voice that I had to lean closer to hear her better, “but when I can no longer pay you… please don’t stop visiting me yet.”
That sentence stayed with me.
I smiled, trying to lighten its weight.
“Don’t worry, Doña Carmen. Just focus on getting better first.”
She squeezed my hand with her cold, bony fingers.
“Promise me.”
I don’t know why, but I promised.
From then on, I kept going to her house every week, sometimes twice, even though she never gave me the 200 pesos she had promised.
At first, I thought she simply forgot.
Later, I imagined she might be waiting to gather several weeks together to pay me all at once.
Eventually, I understood the truth: she simply had nothing to pay me with.
One afternoon, while I was making her some chicken broth, I gathered the courage and said,
“Doña Carmen, don’t worry about the money. You can pay me whenever you can.”
She set the spoon down on the plate and looked at me with a strange sadness.
“You always talk as if there will still be a ‘later.’”
I didn’t know how to respond.
Over the months, my routine became part of her life, and she slowly became part of mine.
I would bring her fruit when I had a little extra money.
I bought her medicine if I noticed she couldn’t afford it.
Sometimes, after finishing the cleaning, I would sit with her for a while and listen to stories about her youth, about a husband who had already passed away, and about some children who, according to her, “had their own lives.”
She never spoke badly of them.
That impressed me.
She would only say,
“A mother never stops being a mother, even when her children forget how to be children.”
One day I found, in a half-closed drawer, several old letters returned by the mail.
All addressed to the same place in Monterrey.
All with the same last name.
None opened.
I said nothing.
Neither did she.
But that night, for the first time, when I was leaving, she asked,
“Could you come back tomorrow?”
I did.
And the next day as well.
Her health began to worsen quickly.
She could hardly get up by herself.
Her breathing came in small, struggling efforts.
One morning the doctor at the community clinic pulled me aside and told me bluntly,
“She’s very weak. I don’t think she has much time left.”
That afternoon, leaving the clinic, I helped her slowly into a taxi. Doña Carmen stayed quiet, looking out the window as if she were seeing a city that no longer belonged to her.
Before getting out in front of her house, she said,
“Diego… when I die, don’t let them throw away my things without checking the wardrobe.”
I felt a blow in my chest.
“Don’t say that.”
“Promise me.”
That word again.
And again, I nodded.
The last two weeks were very hard.
She could hardly eat anything.
I moistened her lips with water.
I tucked in her blankets.
I read newspaper headlines out loud so she could feel that the world was still entering through her door.
One night she grabbed my wrist with a strength I didn’t know she still had.
“Forgive me.”
“For what?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“For not paying you.”
Something inside me broke.
“You don’t owe me anything, Doña Carmen.”
She barely shook her head.
“Yes, I do. But it’s not money that you’re going to receive.”
I didn’t understand those words.
Two days later, when I arrived, the neighbor across the street was standing at the door with red eyes.
I knew the news before she spoke.
“She passed away at dawn, son.”
I entered the house feeling like my feet would not respond.
Everything was exactly the same.
The cup on the table.
The old radio.
The cane leaning beside the bed.
But she was no longer there.
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.
That sentence stayed with me.
I smiled, trying to lighten its weight.
“Don’t worry, Doña Carmen. Just focus on getting better first.”
She squeezed my hand with her cold, bony fingers.
“Promise me.”
I don’t know why, but I promised.
From then on, I kept going to her house every week, sometimes twice, even though she never gave me the 200 pesos she had promised.
At first, I thought she simply forgot.
Later, I imagined she might be waiting to gather several weeks together to pay me all at once.
Eventually, I understood the truth: she simply had nothing to pay me with.
One afternoon, while I was making her some chicken broth, I gathered the courage and said,
“Doña Carmen, don’t worry about the money. You can pay me whenever you can.”
She set the spoon down on the plate and looked at me with a strange sadness.
“You always talk as if there will still be a ‘later.’”
I didn’t know how to respond.
Over the months, my routine became part of her life, and she slowly became part of mine.
I would bring her fruit when I had a little extra money.
I bought her medicine if I noticed she couldn’t afford it.
Sometimes, after finishing the cleaning, I would sit with her for a while and listen to stories about her youth, about a husband who had already passed away, and about some children who, according to her, “had their own lives.”
She never spoke badly of them.
That impressed me.
She would only say,
“A mother never stops being a mother, even when her children forget how to be children.”
One day I found, in a half-closed drawer, several old letters returned by the mail.
All addressed to the same place in Monterrey.
All with the same last name.
None opened.
I said nothing.
Neither did she.
But that night, for the first time, when I was leaving, she asked,
“Could you come back tomorrow?”
I did.
And the next day as well.
Her health began to worsen quickly.
She could hardly get up by herself.
Her breathing came in small, struggling efforts.
One morning the doctor at the community clinic pulled me aside and told me bluntly,
“She’s very weak. I don’t think she has much time left.”
That afternoon, leaving the clinic, I helped her slowly into a taxi. Doña Carmen stayed quiet, looking out the window as if she were seeing a city that no longer belonged to her.
Before getting out in front of her house, she said,
“Diego… when I die, don’t let them throw away my things without checking the wardrobe.”
I felt a blow in my chest.
“Don’t say that.”
“Promise me.”
That word again.
And again, I nodded.
The last two weeks were very hard.
She could hardly eat anything.
I moistened her lips with water.
I tucked in her blankets.
I read newspaper headlines out loud so she could feel that the world was still entering through her door.
One night she grabbed my wrist with a strength I didn’t know she still had.
“Forgive me.”
“For what?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“For not paying you.”
Something inside me broke.
“You don’t owe me anything, Doña Carmen.”
She barely shook her head.
“Yes, I do. But it’s not money that you’re going to receive.”
I didn’t understand those words.
Two days later, when I arrived, the neighbor across the street was standing at the door with red eyes.
I knew the news before she spoke.
“She passed away at dawn, son.”
I entered the house feeling like my feet would not respond.
Everything was exactly the same.
The cup on the table.
The old radio.
The cane leaning beside the bed.
But she was no longer there.
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.