PART 2: THE PILLOW WASN’T FILLED WITH COTTON… IT WAS FILLED WITH THE TRUTH.
At first, I thought it was just old fabric.
The pillow smelled faintly of eucalyptus oil, medicine, and the soap I had used for years to wash Tatay Ramón’s clothes. The stitching along one side had already split open, exposing yellowed stuffing.
But when I pushed my hand deeper inside, my fingers touched something hard.
Paper.
A lot of paper.
My heart started pounding.
Carefully, I pulled out a bundle wrapped in old plastic and tied tightly with faded red thread.
Then another.
And another.
I stared at them under the weak terrace light while rain tapped softly against the tin roof outside.
Money.
Thousands and thousands of pesos.
Old bills.
New bills.
Some folded so tightly they looked ready to fall apart.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Tay…” I whispered.
My hands shook as I reached deeper into the pillow again.
This time I found something else.
An envelope.
My name was written across the front in Tatay Ramón’s uneven handwriting.
Maria.
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