Inside the handkerchief had been a stack of bills so thick I had never seen anything like it. Not riches. Not some impossible fortune. But more money than I had ever watched my mother hold in one place. There was also a small envelope and a folded bank booklet with my father’s name on it.
My mother stared at the booklet like it had risen from the dead.
Then she opened the envelope.
The note inside was in my uncle Antonio’s handwriting.
I did not read it then. My mother did, and when she finished she closed her eyes, bent over, and wept in a way that was not only grief. It was grief, yes, but also relief and disbelief and the exhaustion of a person who has been standing too long and suddenly discovers she is allowed to sit down.
When she could finally breathe again, she handed me the note.
It said:
Rosa,
This is Mateo’s unpaid wages, the compensation from the company, and the savings he left with me from the tandas. They tried to give less. I did not let them. It took time, but it is his and yours. I added what I could.
Feed the children first.
Pay what cannot wait.
Say nothing to anyone.
And please forgive me for taking so long.
—Antonio
I read it twice.
Then I looked at my mother.
“The company gave money?”
She nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “Your uncle fought for it.”
That was when she told me everything.
After my father died, the construction company tried to settle quickly and quietly. They sent a man to the house with papers and a small amount of money, hoping a grieving widow with three children would sign whatever was put in front of her. My mother, half blind with sorrow and fear, almost did.
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