“È finita.
Quella notte non ci sono andato con lui.
Ho mando l’ambulanza.
When I arrived home, I kept around the barella.
“Dove eri?” You stavo aspettando.
“Occupy.”
Lui aggrottò la fronte.
“Hai portato il mio pane?”
L’ho guardato.
For the first time in five years I have seen it.
Non vedevo più l’uomo malato.
I have seen the show at my agio.
“Me ne sono dimenticato.”
Il suo volto cambiò.
“Cosa intendi con te ne sei dimenticato?”
Non ho risposto.
Gli ho sistemato il cuscino.
Gli ho coperto le gambe.
Gli ho dato le sue pillole.
Ho fatto tutto allo this mode.
Inside it was not più la stessa.
Il giorno dopo ho iniziato.
First I checked the papers.
Invoices.
Accounts.
Scriptures.
Receipts.
Contracts.
Everything he thought that I didn’t understand because “I was only good for taking care of him.”
I found things.
Many.
A life insurance policy.
A hidden account.
A will where my name didn’t appear, not even by mistake.
And a folder with the name Tomás on it.
Inside there were storage facilities.
Monthly.
Big.
While I was counting pesos to buy gas, Esteban was sending money to his son so he could buy motorcycles, sneakers, and trips to Cancun.
I laughed.
A dry laugh.
Not from pain.
Disgusting.
That night, while I was feeding him dinner, Esteban asked me:
—Why are you so quiet?
I wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
-I’m tired.
—Well, rest when I go to sleep.
He said it without shame.
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