From then on, every few days when I finished my driving routes, I’d stop by. She embroidered under the lemon tree, always waiting with warm coffee and fresh bread.
“You are part of my family now,” she would say.
But peace is fragile.
One morning she called me, her voice trembling:
“They came.”
Her son and daughter-in-law had found out about the money. They pushed their way inside, shouting that everything belonged to them. They even called her a thief.
“My own son,” she whispered.
I wanted to confront them, but she held me back.
“No, son. Life handles these things. I just need strength.”
Then she looked at me with something steadfast in her eyes.
“I want to leave something behind. For my eldest grandson—the one who dreams of being an engineer. I want to open an account in his name. He deserves a future.”
“But I didn’t help you for anything in return,” I told her.
“Exactly. That’s why you’re the right person to help me.”
We arranged everything carefully. She opened a new account under her grandson’s name, to be released when he turned eighteen.
