Your mother touches the ring first.
It is your father’s.
You know it instantly because even though he has been dead for years, you still remember the way he used to twist that ring with his thumb while sitting outside at night, listening to the radio and staring at the sky as if he were trying to solve something bigger than bills. He wore it until the day he left for the construction site and never came home.
Your throat tightens.
“That’s Papá’s,” you say.
Your mother nods once, but the nod breaks in the middle.
Then she hands you the letter.
“Read it,” she says.
Her voice is so uneven you almost do not recognize it.
You take the page carefully.
Continue on the next page:
