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.
