My daughter helped me remove the rubber band. Inside the shoebox were thirty-six unopened envelopes, each containing one of my rent checks. Beneath them sat an old photograph of a smiling young woman holding a baby.
Mr. Castillo had written a letter explaining everything.
The woman was his daughter, Elena. Years earlier, she had escaped an unhappy marriage with almost no money and a little girl beside her. Mr. Castillo had refused to let her move home because he believed she needed to solve her own problems.
Elena never recovered financially. She worked constantly, struggled with unstable housing, and died in a car accident before they could repair their relationship.
When Mr. Castillo saw me arrive with my daughter, he said it felt like life had returned the same moment and offered him another choice.
He had kept every check to ensure I treated the apartment seriously, but he never intended to cash them.
The final envelope contained the property deed.
He was transferring the garage apartment and a section of the land into my name.
“You already paid,” the letter read. “You paid by giving your daughter the stability I should have given mine.”
The next morning, my daughter and I crossed the yard and hugged him.
For once, Mr. Castillo did not close the door.