Slow, weary footsteps can be heard from inside.The door opens, and María appears, a 52-year-old woman with gray hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Her calloused hands and stained waitress uniform tell the story of decades of hard work.
“Mrs. María González?” he asks, his voice trembling. She nods, confused.
She doesn’t recognize this stranger who seems to have stepped out of another world.
“I’ve come to settle a debt I’ve owed you for 17 years,” the young man says, extending the envelope toward Maria.
She instinctively steps back.
“Young man, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I don’t know anyone who drives a car like that.”
“I’m not mistaken, ma’am. You saved my life when I was just 8 years old.”
Maria frowns, trying to remember.
So many faces have passed through her life, so many nights of work are swirling in her memory.
“Can we talk inside?” he asks, glancing at the curious neighbors who are beginning to peer out of their windows.
The contrast is striking when they enter the modest living room.
The furniture is worn, but clean.
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