My wife di:ed years ago. Every month I sent $300 to her mother. Until I found out…

They said it was a car accident. Marina had been traveling to visit her family in a coastal village six hours away. The police report was brief. The coffin arrived sealed, supposedly because the impact had been too severe. The funeral passed like a fog—faces blurred by grief, arms wrapping around me while I felt absolutely nothing.

The clearest memory I had from that day was Doña Clara—small, fragile, shaking—clinging to me as though I were the last thing keeping her upright.

In the middle of all that shared devastation, I made a promise.

Marina had always worried about her mother. A widow. A small pension. Failing health.
“If anything ever happens to me,” she once said half-jokingly, “please don’t let her struggle.”

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