The doorbell rang on a Thursday morning. I opened it to find a young woman I’d never seen before.
“I’m Sophia,” she said. “I’m Daniel’s daughter.”
I hadn’t heard my son’s name spoken out loud in twenty-five years. Not since the morning I found my husband on the floor, the safe behind him hanging open, empty. Every penny we’d saved for eighteen years, gone. My son gone with it.
My husband died three days later. Heart attack, never woke up. And Daniel never came back, never called, never explained, just vanished like he’d never existed.
Now his daughter was standing on my doorstep.
“He died last month,” she said. “Before he died, he told me everything. And he gave me this.”
She held up a key, small, silver, ordinary.
“What is that?”
“He said, ‘You deserve to know the truth about why he left, about where he’s been, about what he’s been doing all these years.’”
I stared at this girl with my dead husband’s eyes.
“He spent his whole life trying to tell you something,” she said. “This key opens it.”
I took the key from her hand. By the time I used it, everything I’d believed for over twenty years was about to shatter.
My name is Rosa. I am sixty-seven years old, and this is my story.
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Now, back to the story.
The doorbell rang at 9:47 a.m. I almost didn’t answer. I never get visitors. Usually it’s someone selling security systems or asking if I’ve considered solar panels, but it rang again, insistent.
So I checked the window.
A young woman stood on my doorstep. Early twenties, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, worn backpack over one shoulder. She didn’t look like a salesperson. She looked nervous.
I opened the door partway.
“Can I help you?”
She stared at me for a moment, opened her mouth, closed it, tried again.
“Are you Rosa Delgado?”
Something about her face looked familiar. The way she stood. Maybe the shape of her jaw.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m Sophia. Sophia Delgado.”
She paused, swallowed.
“I’m Daniel’s daughter.”
My hand tightened on the doorknob. The world narrowed to just her face. And I saw it now. Those eyes—Antonio’s eyes—the exact same shade of brown, looking back at me.
“Come inside,” I heard myself say.
She followed me into my apartment. Small place, one bedroom, neat but worn. I’ve lived here twelve years. Long enough that I don’t really see it anymore.
We ended up at the kitchen table without discussing it. I offered coffee because I needed something to do with my hands. She nodded. I poured two cups while she sat, setting her backpack carefully at her feet.
My morning’s work was still spread across the table: client invoices, calculator, red pen where I’d been circling discrepancies. I pushed them aside and sat down across from her.
She wrapped both hands around the coffee mug like she was cold.
“He died last month.”
I waited. Didn’t ask who. Already knew.
“Cancer,” she said. “Pancreatic. He was sick almost a year.”
The news landed flat. I’d already mourned my son. Did it over twenty years ago when he emptied our safe and disappeared. You can’t grieve someone twice.
“Before he died,” Sophia continued, not meeting my eyes, “in the hospital… he told me things.”
My voice came out harder than I meant it to.
“What kind of things? About you? About what happened? Why he left?”
“What happened is he emptied our safe and disappeared.”
She flinched but didn’t look away. Instead, she reached into her backpack and pulled out a small silver key, set it on the table between us next to my calculator and red pen. It was a standard storage unit key. The number 247 was stamped on the side.
“He made me promise to find you,” she said quietly. “To give you this.”
I stared at the key sitting on my kitchen table, small and silver and ordinary.
“There’s a storage unit,” Sophia said. “Here in San Diego. He said, ‘Everything’s there.’”
“Everything? What he took? Why he really left? All of it?”
I picked up the key. It was cold in my palm, lighter than I expected. I haven’t seen my son in over two decades. Haven’t heard his voice. Haven’t known if he was alive or dead or thought about me at all. Now he’s dead, and this girl is sitting in my kitchen—this girl with my husband’s eyes and my son’s last name—holding answers I stopped wanting years ago.
“He wanted you to know the truth,” Sophia said quietly. “Said you deserved that much.”
I turned the key over in my fingers. The metal warmed slightly against my skin.
Truth.
After all this time, I wasn’t sure I even wanted the truth. Truth wouldn’t bring back Antonio, wouldn’t give me back those years of working three jobs and eating ramen and washing my clothes in the bathtub when the laundromat was too expensive.
But my granddaughter was sitting across from me, waiting for me to say something.
I closed my fist around the key.
“Where’s this storage unit?”
Sophia pulled out her phone, showed me the address.
“It’s about fifteen minutes from here, off Marina Boulevard.”
I nodded but didn’t really process it. My mind had already gone somewhere else. Back to that spring when the safe was first emptied. When I learned what betrayal felt like.
I was forty-two then. Antonio was sixty-two. Still strong, still working six days a week. We owned La Cocina de Antonio, a small Mexican restaurant on University Avenue. Twenty tables, always busy. The smell of carnitas and fresh tortillas filling the air from opening to close.
We built that place from nothing. Eighteen years of seven-day weeks and burnt hands and learning to smile at customers even when we wanted to collapse. Antonio did all the cooking. I managed the front of house and kept the books. Our son Daniel worked there too. Had since he finished high school. He was twenty-two, good with customers, showed up on time, never complained about the long hours.
We were a family. That’s what I thought, anyway.
Antonio kept cash in a safe in the back office. It was an old habit from growing up poor in Guadalajara. His family had lost their savings when a bank collapsed during his childhood. After that, he never trusted them.
“This I can see,” he’d say, patting the safe. “This I can touch.”
I argued with him about it. Told him banks were safer now, that keeping that much cash was dangerous. But he was stubborn. Every week he’d skim a little extra from the register, add it to the safe. Fifty dollars here, a hundred there. Over fifteen years, it added up. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars organized in labeled envelopes, Antonio’s careful handwriting marking what each stack was for: supplier payments, payroll, emergency fund, and the biggest envelope, the one we added to every month—building fund.
We’d been renting the restaurant space for all those years. The landlord had promised to sell it to us when we saved enough. We were finally close.
Antonio taught Daniel the combination when he turned twenty-one. I remember him doing it, calling Daniel into the office, writing the numbers on a scrap of paper.
“In case something happens to me,” he’d said. “You need to be able to take care of your mother.”
Daniel had nodded, serious, memorizing the numbers, then throwing the paper away like his father told him to.
That morning started normal. Antonio went to the office early to get cash for our suppliers. We had a big delivery coming. I was in the kitchen prepping vegetables, radio playing norteño music, already warm even though we wouldn’t open for another two hours.
Then I heard something fall—a heavy thud from the back office.
I found him on the floor. His face was gray, twisted, one hand clutching his chest. Behind him, the safe door hung open, completely empty.
I don’t remember much of what happened next—calling 911, holding his hand, the paramedics loading him into the ambulance. The hospital waiting room with its fluorescent lights and smell of disinfectant and people crying in corners. They kept him on machines for three days, breathing for him, his heart beating only because they made it beat. The doctors kept using words like “catastrophic” and “irreversible damage.” They were preparing me, I realized later, telling me he wasn’t coming back.
I called Daniel’s phone over and over. Voicemail every time. Went to his apartment on the second day. The landlord let me in after I explained about Antonio. Everything was still there. His clothes in the closet, dishes in the sink, bed unmade like he’d just gotten up, but Daniel was gone. His car was gone from the parking spot. It looked like he’d left for work and never came back.
The police came to the hospital on the third day, asked questions about the safe. Who knew the combination? When I’d last seen Daniel? Their faces were sympathetic, but knowing. Only three people knew that combination: Antonio, me, and Daniel.
Antonio died that afternoon without waking up. The machines kept beeping, and then suddenly they didn’t, and the doctor was saying something about time of death, and I was signing papers I didn’t read.
The funeral was small. The restaurant community came. Other business owners we knew, but the gossip had already started. People knew about the empty safe, about Daniel disappearing. They stopped meeting my eyes. Conversations died when I walked up. The ones who stayed kind were worse somehow. Their pity sat on me like weight.
I had to sell the restaurant to cover Antonio’s medical bills and funeral costs. Sold it fast for less than it was worth to someone who changed the name within a month. I moved into a cheap apartment, started working three jobs: hotel housekeeping in the mornings, retail in the afternoons, bookkeeping in the evenings for anyone who’d hire me. It took years to climb back to something resembling stable ground. Years of night shifts and ramen dinners and doing laundry in the bathtub when the laundromat felt too expensive.
I built a small life, kept my head down, stopped expecting much. The anger settled in slowly, became part of the furniture. I’d wake up angry, go to bed angry, carry it with me like an extra weight in my chest.
My son had stolen everything and run.
That’s what I believed. That’s what everyone believed.
Sophia’s voice pulled me back.
“Are you okay?”
I blinked. My kitchen came back into focus. The coffee had gone cold in my mug. The key was still in my hand, warming against my palm.
“I spent over twenty years thinking I knew exactly what my son did,” I said. My voice came out rough. “Now you’re telling me I was wrong.”
Sophia looked down at her coffee.
“I don’t know if you were wrong. I just know there’s more to the story. He told me that much before he died.”
I stood up, legs stiff from sitting, carried my mug to the sink, and poured the cold coffee down the drain. When I turned back, Sophia was watching me with those eyes—Antonio’s eyes.
“We should go,” I said. “To the storage unit. If there’s something there I need to see, let’s get it over with.”
She nodded and grabbed her backpack. I picked up my purse and keys, checking that the storage unit key was still in my hand.
It was.
We’d go see what Daniel left behind. After all this time, I’d finally know why my son destroyed us.
Or at least that’s what I told myself. Part of me wasn’t sure I wanted to know at all.
I stopped at the door, hand on the knob. Sophia was behind me with her backpack, waiting, but I couldn’t make myself turn that knob. I was about to get in a car with someone I’d never met, someone who claimed to be my granddaughter, drive to a storage unit to look at whatever my dead son had left behind.
I turned around.
“Wait.”
Sophia looked at me, uncertain.
“Before we go,” I said, “I need to know more about you. About him.”
She nodded slowly. We stood there in my narrow entryway for a moment. Then she moved back toward the kitchen table. I followed. We sat back down in the same chairs we’d just left.
“Tell me about yourself,” I said. “Tell me about Daniel.”
Sophia set her backpack on the floor, wrapped her hands together on the table.
“I grew up in Tijuana,” she said. “Just me and him. Small apartment near Zona Río.”
“Your mother?”
“She left when I was three. Moved back to her family somewhere in Sinaloa. I don’t really remember her.”
Just the two of them then, like me alone. But at least she’d had her father.
“What was he like?”
The question came out rougher than I meant. Sophia looked down at her hands.
“Sad. He was always sad. But he was there, you know? Every morning he’d make breakfast before work. Every night he’d help with my homework. He came to every parent-teacher meeting, every school event. Even when he was exhausted from work.”
“What did he do?”
“Construction. Mostly commercial buildings. He’d come home covered in dust, hands all torn up, but he never missed a day unless he was really sick.”
I tried to picture my son as a construction worker. Twenty-two when he left, strong and young. Forty-seven when he died, those years in between, working with his hands, raising a daughter alone.
“Did he ever talk about us?” I asked. “About me and his father?”
Sophia nodded.
“Not often, but sometimes he’d tell me stories about the restaurant. About learning to cook from his dad. About you keeping the books, how you could always find a mistake just by looking at the numbers.”
Something twisted in my chest. He’d remembered those things.
“When I was little, maybe ten,” Sophia went on, “he showed me a photo from his wallet. A woman standing in front of a restaurant, smiling. He said, ‘This is your grandmother, Rosa.’ That’s it. Just your name. He never explained why I didn’t know about you.”
“No?” I asked.
“He’d just get quiet. Change the subject. I learned to stop asking.”
We sat in silence for a moment. I watched this girl who had Antonio’s eyes and Daniel’s jawline and some echo of myself I couldn’t quite place.
“What did he tell you?” I asked. “Before he died. In the hospital.”
Sophia’s face tightened.
“He got sick last year. Pancreatic cancer, stage four. The doctor said six months. He made it eleven. Eleven months of dying.”
I wondered if he’d been scared, if he’d been in pain, if he’d thought about calling me.
“He kept working almost until the end,” Sophia continued. “Didn’t want to stop. Said he had things to finish. The last week he was in the hospital. They’d given him so much morphine he barely knew where he was. But one night around two in the morning, he woke up lucid. Grabbed my hand so hard it hurt.”
Sophia’s voice got quieter.
“He said, ‘I need to tell you something before I can’t anymore.’ And he told me about you, about San Diego, about a storage unit with a key he’d kept hidden. He made me memorize the address. Made me promise I’d find you.”
“Did he tell you why he left?”
“Not really. Just that something happened, that he had to leave. That he’d been carrying it all these years and he needed you to know the truth.”
“The truth,” I said flatly. “He had over twenty years to tell me the truth. He said he couldn’t? Said he was too ashamed?”
The word hit wrong. Ashamed. He should have been ashamed. He emptied our safe and disappeared. His father died thinking he’d been betrayed by his own son.
Sophia flinched but held my gaze.
“He died knowing that too,” she said. “Knowing what it did to his father. It’s part of what killed him, I think. Cancer killed him, maybe. But he carried so much guilt. It was like watching someone drown slowly.”
I looked away, out the kitchen window at the apartment building across the street. Tried to feel something other than anger. Couldn’t quite manage it.
“How did you get here?” I asked, changing the subject. “From Tijuana.”
“Bus to the border. Walked across. Another bus from San Ysidro.” She paused. “Took about five hours total.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Hostel downtown. It’s cheap.”
I studied her worn jacket, the frayed backpack, the exhaustion sitting in her shoulders. She’d spent five hours on buses to bring me a key from a father who’d just died.
I made a decision before I could overthink it.
“You can stay here tonight. The couch pulls out.”
Her eyes widened.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know I don’t. But you came all this way.” I hesitated, then finished. “And you’re family, whether I like it or not.”
Something shifted in her expression. Relief, maybe, or gratitude.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
I stood up, picked up my purse from where I’d set it on the counter.
“Let’s go to the storage unit. If there’s something there I need to see, we should get it over with.”
Sophia grabbed her backpack and followed me to the door. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I turned the knob, stepped out into the hallway, locked the door behind us.
My car was in the parking lot. An aging Honda that burned oil and made concerning noises when I turned left. Sophia got in the passenger seat without comment. I started the engine, pulled up the address on my phone.
Fifteen minutes, the map said. Fifteen minutes to whatever Daniel had left behind.
Sophia was quiet as I drove, looking out the window at the city she’d probably never seen from this angle. I focused on the road, on the familiar streets turning unfamiliar as we headed toward the industrial area near Marina Boulevard.
The storage facility appeared on our right. Chain-link fence, orange doors in long rows, the kind of place where people keep things they don’t have room for—or things they want to forget about. I pulled into the parking lot, cut the engine. The key was in my pocket, small and heavy.
Sophia looked at me.
“Ready?”
I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway.
We got out of the car and walked toward the office. The manager barely looked up when we walked in. He pushed a clipboard across the counter, pen attached by a chain. I signed my name. Sophia signed hers underneath. He handed me a small map of the facility, Unit 247 circled in red marker.
“Back corner,” he said, already looking back at his phone. “Lock it when you’re done.”
We walked out into the heat. Rows of orange doors stretched in front of us, identical and numbered. The sun bounced off the metal, making everything shimmer. Sophia walked beside me, quiet. Both of us followed the path between the units.
Unit 247 was at the far end, tucked into the corner like it was hiding. I stopped in front of it, key in my hand. My palm was sweating. The metal was slick.
“You okay?” Sophia asked.
I wasn’t, but I nodded and fitted the key into the lock. It clicked. I pulled the door up. The metal screamed on its rails, the sound echoing off the concrete. The door rolled up and open, revealing darkness inside.
I stepped into the unit. It was small, maybe eight by ten feet. Dim light from the corridor behind us was the only illumination. Dust motes floated in the air. The space smelled like cardboard and metal and time.
Against the back wall sat a dark green safe, medium-sized, the exact same kind Antonio had kept in the restaurant office.
I stopped moving. Couldn’t breathe right.
“Is that—” Sophia started.
“Same kind,” I said. My voice came out strange. “Same as the one he emptied.”
The irony hit me like something solid. He’d stolen from a safe, kept everything in another one. All these years.
There was a piece of paper taped to the top. I stepped closer. Numbers written in Daniel’s handwriting: 071578. His birthday, July 15, 1978. Numbers I’d know anywhere.
I reached for the dial. My hands were shaking, but I needed to do this myself. Right to 07. Left past 0 to 15. Right to 78. The handle gave. The door swung open with that familiar metallic groan I hadn’t heard in decades.
Inside were stacks of cash, rubber-banded, organized by denomination. Each stack had a paper band with a year written in black marker. The first few were from right after he left. Then they marched forward through the years—the early 2000s, the tens, the twenties. The most recent stack marked just months ago.
“Help me,” I said to Sophia. My voice was shaking now too.
We pulled the stacks out together, set them on the concrete floor. Neither of us spoke, just the sound of paper rustling, rubber bands snapping as we organized them. Fifties in one pile, hundreds in another, twenties stacked neatly.
“Count with me,” I said.
Sophia pulled out her phone, opened the calculator. I counted out loud. She tallied stack after stack after stack.
“Three hundred fifty-six thousand,” she said finally.
I sat down on the concrete floor. The bills surrounded me like evidence. More than he’d taken, more than the two hundred fifty thousand that had been in Antonio’s safe. He’d added to it, saved more. Year after year, adding more.
“He paid it back,” I said. The words came out broken. “Every penny and then some.”
I started crying. I hadn’t cried in years. Not real crying. Not like this. But I couldn’t stop it. Hot tears, angry and confused, and something else I didn’t have a name for.
Sophia sat down next to me on the concrete. She didn’t touch me, just sat there waiting.
When I could breathe again, I looked back at the safe. There was more inside. Three cardboard boxes stacked behind where the money had been.
“Help me with these,” I said.
The boxes were labeled in Daniel’s handwriting. All three said “Sophia.”
We pulled the first one out, opened it. Photographs. Hundreds of them. Sophia as a baby, tiny and red-faced in a hospital blanket. Sophia as a toddler with a gap-toothed smile, holding a stuffed rabbit. School pictures, year after year—kindergarten, first grade, fifth grade, high school.
I pulled one out. Sophia, maybe seven years old, standing in front of a birthday cake. Daniel was behind her, hands on her shoulders, both smiling, but his eyes looked sad. Even then.
I turned it over. His handwriting on the back: Her seventh birthday. She asked about you today. I didn’t know what to say.
Another photo. Sophia in a pink dress, Daniel in a suit beside her. On the back: Quinceañera. She’s fifteen. She looks like you when you smile.
I kept pulling photos out. Sophia’s whole life documented. Every birthday, every holiday, every ordinary moment. His handwriting on each one, marking the date, writing small notes.
First steps today. Lost her first tooth. Honor roll again. You’d be proud.
Sophia was crying now too, seeing herself through her father’s eyes, seeing how carefully he’d saved every moment.
The second box had folders inside. Each one labeled with a different year spanning over a decade. I didn’t open them yet. Didn’t have the strength.
The third box was covered with a blanket, something underneath. We lifted the blanket together. A small wooden box, old, worn at the corners. I opened it slowly.
Inside was a watch. Men’s watch, silver, the kind you wind. The face was scratched, the band worn. It had stopped working, frozen at some random time. I picked it up, turned it over. There was an inscription on the back, worn but readable.
To Daniel, graduate 1996. Love, Dad.
Antonio had given this to Daniel when he graduated high school. I remembered the day; Antonio had saved for months to buy it.
There was a photograph underneath the watch. The three of us standing in front of the restaurant. I was younger. Antonio’s arm around my waist. Daniel between us, grinning at the camera. We looked happy.
A note was folded at the bottom of the box. Daniel’s handwriting.
The watch was mine. Dad gave it to me when I graduated. I wore it every day, even after it stopped working. The photo was in my wallet. It’s all I had left of you both.
I held the watch in my palm. Daniel had worn this, carried it with him into exile, kept it even when it broke. His only connection to the father he’d killed and the mother he’d abandoned.
At the bottom of the safe, underneath where all the money had been stacked, was one more thing: a sealed envelope, thick with pages, my name written across it in Daniel’s careful handwriting.
Rosa.
Sophia saw me looking at it.
“He wrote that the week before he died,” she said quietly. “He made me promise to give it to you. Said everything you need to know is in there.”
I picked it up. The paper was slightly yellowed at the edges, the seal still intact. I could feel pages inside. Many pages, not just a note. This was it. The truth he’d promised. The reason he’d left. The explanation for everything around me—money he’d saved for decades, photos of a granddaughter I’d never known, a watch he’d worn every day, a gift from his father. Evidence of a life I’d missed completely.
Sophia was watching me, waiting.
“I need to read this alone,” I said.
She nodded.
“I understand.”
We packed everything back into the safe except the letter and one of the folders. Sophia helped me load the money back in, stack by stack. Neither of us spoke. The photographs went back in their box. The watch and the photo stayed in the small wooden box, and I held that in one hand.
We locked the unit, walked back to the car in silence. I drove Sophia to the hostel downtown. She gathered her backpack, hesitated with her hand on the door handle.
“Will you be okay?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
It was the truth.
She nodded.
“I’ll wait to hear from you.”
Then she was gone, disappearing through the hostel’s front door.
I sat in my car for a moment, the letter on the passenger seat beside me, the wooden box with Daniel’s watch in my lap. Everything felt heavier than it should. I drove home. The evening traffic was light. By the time I got back to my apartment, the sun was setting, painting everything orange and pink through my kitchen window.
I sat at the table, made tea even though I didn’t want it. Just needed something to do with my hands while I stared at that envelope. My name on the front in Daniel’s handwriting.
Rosa.
Just my name, nothing else.
Finally, I opened it. Six sheets of paper, written front and back, dated one week before he died. His handwriting was shaky in places, like his hands hadn’t been steady. I could picture him in a hospital bed, dying, trying to get this all down before he couldn’t anymore.
I started reading.
Mom,
I don’t know how to start this. I’ve written it in my head a thousand times. Never found the right words. Still haven’t. But I’m dying, and I’m running out of time to be a coward.
You think I stole from you and Dad. You’re right. I did. But not for the reason you think.
Spring of that year, Carlos Ruiz came to me with a job. We’d been friends since high school. You remember him. He said he had side work—deliveries, paid cash, $2,000 for one night. I wanted a car. Wanted to stop borrowing Dad’s truck. Wanted to pay for it myself, not ask you guys for help. You’d both worked so hard already.
Carlos said it was easy. Just packages from San Diego to Tijuana. He’d done it before. No problems. Made it sound simple.
I should have asked what was in the packages. Should have questioned why someone pays $2,000 for a delivery. But I wanted that car, and I didn’t ask.
We picked up the package on a Wednesday night. Heavy box, taped shut. Drove toward the border. Stopped at a gas station off the 805. I went inside for water. Came back to Carlos freaking out. Car window smashed. Package gone.
That’s when he told me.
“Cocaine. Five kilos. Worth $250,000. The package we just lost.”
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, kept saying, “What did you do? What did you get us into?”
Less than two hours later, they found us. Three guys pulled up while we were still at the gas station. Carlos knew them. They weren’t police. They took us to a house in Chula Vista, explained very clearly: we owed $250,000. We had forty-eight hours to bring it to Tijuana, cash. If we didn’t, they’d kill us both. Then visit our families.
They said your name, Mom. Said the address of the restaurant. Described what Dad looked like. They said, “Don’t go to police.” They had people everywhere. They’d know, and everyone we loved would die.
I believed them. I was twenty-two and terrified, and I believed every word.
I knew where Dad kept the money. Knew the combination because he taught it to me. Knew exactly how much was there. I told myself I was protecting you. That if I didn’t pay them, they’d kill all of us. That I’d pay it back somehow. Work for the rest of my life. But at least you’d be alive.
That night, I went to the restaurant. Let myself in the back. Opened the safe. All those envelopes, years of saving, Dad’s careful handwriting on each one. I took all of it. I couldn’t close the safe. Tried three times. My hands were shaking too bad. Left it open.
Next day, Carlos and I drove to Tijuana. Met them at a warehouse. Handed over the cash. They counted it. Then said, “You two stay in Mexico. You cross back to the States, we’ll assume you talked to police. Your families become problems.”
We were trapped. Stay in Mexico or get everyone killed.
That afternoon I called the restaurant to explain. Line was busy. Tried again. Busy. Third time a stranger answered. Said the restaurant was closed. Emergency.
I found out two days later. Dad found the empty safe. Heart attack. Died in the hospital.
I killed him, Mom. I emptied that safe, and his heart couldn’t take it. He died thinking I’d betrayed him. Thinking I stole from my own family. How do you come back from that? How do you call and say, “Sorry I killed Dad, but I had a good reason”?
I couldn’t. I was a coward.
I stayed in Tijuana. Got a construction job. Lived cheap. Saved everything. Opened a safe. Started filling it every week, more money. Labeled each stack with the year. Met Sophia’s mother. Had Sophia. Her mother left. I raised Sophia alone. Told her about you constantly. Every chance I had.
Every time I had a chance to save money, I did. Every time I thought about spending it on something nice, something easier, I saw Dad on that floor.
The safe filled up. Years passed. Sophia grew. I kept saving.
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