This is Michael’s unpaid wages, the compensation from the company, and the savings he left with me. They tried to give less. I didn’t let them. It took time, but it belongs to you and the kids. I added what I could.
Feed the children first.
Pay what cannot wait.
Say nothing to anyone.
And forgive me for taking so long.
—Victor
I read it twice.
Then looked at her. “The company paid?”
She nodded, wiping her tears. “Your uncle fought for it.”
That’s when she told me everything.
After my father died, the company tried to settle quickly and quietly, offering almost nothing. My mother, overwhelmed with grief, nearly signed.
But Victor stopped it.
He went to the city. Argued. Filed claims. Took buses he could barely afford. Fought for every dollar—wages, compensation, and the savings my father had quietly set aside.
And he told no one the full amount, so no one could take advantage before it was safe.
He hid it in rice—because no one steals rice from a poor family.
That night, we ate until we were full.
Real food.
Rice, beans, eggs, fresh tortillas.
My mother made us sit at the table—not out of habit, but because she wanted us to remember what dignity felt like.
The next morning, we went to thank him.