Mom put the key in the lock.
I still remember that sound.
A small click.
That's it.
After more than forty years, when I imagined all sorts of things about that box, I expected to find money.
Maybe jewelry.
Maybe documents about some kind of debt.
Maybe it proves a life that Dad hid from us.
But when Mom lifted the lid, there were no piles of bills inside.
There were dozens of envelopes, old bank books, bank statements and a thick folder.
In the first envelope it was written:
“Daisy – 1983.”
In the following:
“Daisy – 1984.”
Then, in 1985,
Year after year.
Mom pulled the file out.
The cover simply put:
“Because of Margarita.”
“What is all this?” I asked.
Dad sat down.
For the first time in my life, I saw him avoiding our gaze.
“Your mother’s money.
I stood still.
“What money?”
- Everyone.
My aunt chased briefly.
Robert, what are you talking about?
Dad looked up.
“I didn’t spend his salary.
Mom sat next to her without saying anything.
Then I realized something even stranger.
She knew it.
“Mother?”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Open the briefcase,” he said.
Inside were bank documents.
The first were several decades ago.
Savings accounts.
Deposits.
State titles.
Subsequently, prudent investments were made through the bank.
All the documents were in his mother's name.
Some exclusively with his name.
I started to leaf through the pages.
At first, the amounts were not impressive.
Little by little every month.
Salary after salary.
Year after year.
However, after four decades, they became something no one expected to see
