Life became steadier, but the rent checks remained untouched.
By the end of the third year, nearly $29,000 was still sitting untouched in my account, so I finally marched to Mr. Alvarez’s door and demanded the truth.
Without saying a word, he handed me a shoebox.
The shoebox was old and soft at the corners.
A faded brand name stretched across the lid, and a strip of tape held one side together.
I stared at it.
“What is this?”
Mr. Alvarez stepped away from the doorway.
“Open it.”
His voice was quiet, but firm.
I held the box against my chest and looked past him. His kitchen was small and neat. A clock ticked above the stove. There was a single cup beside the sink.
“Can I come inside?” I asked.
He hesitated, then moved aside.
I had never been inside his house before.
The room smelled like coffee and furniture polish. Framed photographs covered one wall. Most were old. In one, a younger Mr. Alvarez stood beside a woman with dark hair. They were both smiling.
He pointed toward the table.
“Sit.”
I placed the shoebox in front of me and lifted the lid.
Inside were my rent checks.
All of them.
