“Come inside,” she said firmly. “Right now.”
I wanted to refuse, but my legs trembled when I tried to stand. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders and guided me into her small apartment.
Within minutes she had tea on the table and a blanket over my knees.
“You’re staying here tonight,” she said. “No arguments.”
I didn’t argue.
Instead, I reached slowly into my purse.
At the very bottom was something I hadn’t touched in years.
A small envelope.
The paper had yellowed slightly with time.
My husband Martín’s handwriting covered the front:
Continue on the next page:
