I—the youngest—had just gotten married and was still paying the mortgage. But seeing my father’s completely gray hair and hunched back, I couldn’t say no.
I took the promissory note, signed to assume the debt, and arranged for him to come live with me so I could take care of him.
A year passed, and life wasn’t easy.
I worked from dawn to dusk to pay off the debt; often the only meal was a plate of boiled nopales or beans.
My wife stopped buying clothes; she even sold the new motorcycle we had bought.
In return, I saw a rare but sincere smile on my father’s face, enjoying spending time with his grandchildren.
On the exact day that marked one year since I signed the promissory note, my father called me into his room and asked me to sit down.
He took a letter-sized piece of paper folded in half from a drawer and placed it carefully in front of me.
