“Of me?”
“Of losing what you were to me.”
He frowned softly. “And what am I?”
I reached for the second folder. The deed. “The owner of a small house with a lemon tree.”
He looked at me as if I had spoken another language.
I handed him the papers.
His eyes moved over the deed once. Then again. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He turned to the second page, then the third, as if the truth might become less impossible if he read every line. “No,” he whispered. “Luis, no.”
“Yes.”
“No, hijo, this is madness.”
“It is yours.”
“I have a room.”
“You have survived in a room. That is not the same thing.”
“I don’t need a house.”
“I know. That is why you deserve one.”
He covered his face with both hands. The deed slid toward his knees, and I caught it before it fell. He did not sob like before. This was different. Silent. Heavy. The kind of crying that comes when a person who has never asked life for comfort suddenly feels it touching his shoulder. I waited. For once, I did not rush to fix his feelings. A man’s dignity does not return because you hand him papers. It returns when you stop deciding for him how he should receive love.
After a long time, he lowered his hands. “You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“You made an old man walk out believing his son was ashamed of him.”
“I know.”
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