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

Standing by the grave, the dirt still fresh, I swore to Doña Clara that she never would.

“I’ll take care of you,” I told her, my own hands trembling as I wiped her tears. “Every month. For food, for medicine. It’s what Marina would have wanted.”

She nodded, grateful and broken, and returned to her village.

From that day on, every single month, the money left my account. It wasn’t a fortune, but to me it was sacred—a quiet ritual that made me feel connected to my wife even after she was gone. Sending that money felt like proof that I was still a good husband. That I was honoring her memory.

My friends told me it was time to stop.

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