My wife has been dead for years – at least, that’s what I thought – and yet every month, without fail, I sent $300 to her mother. The notification always arrived punctually at 9 a.m. on the first day of the month. So regularly, in fact, that I hardly even looked at my phone anymore.
I already knew what the message would say before “Transfer Successful” appeared: Recipient Donia Clara, my mother-in-law – the woman who was once my whole world and later became my greatest pain.Five years, three months, and two days had passed since Marina disappeared from my life.
I never had the strength to say it out loud, even as I stood before her marble grave, her name and date of death engraved in stone. Inside, it felt as if she had merely vanished, that there was an empty space beside me in bed, and that our home was filled only with suffocating silence.
I was told it was a car accident, on her way to visit her parents in a coastal town. A brief police report, a closed casket, the images too terrible to see. The funeral went by – I felt nothing but disorientation. People hugged me; I smiled back, though I couldn’t really feel my own arms.
The only image that stayed in my mind was Donia Clara: small, broken, clinging to my arm as if I were her only anchor in the world.At that moment, I remembered something Marina had once said to me, half-joking, half-serious: “If anything happens to me, be there for Mom.”
She had always cared for her – a widow, modest, fragile, with a meager income. Even before Marina, and before I had promised it myself, I promised Donia Clara: You will never want for anything. Every month, I would send money, for food, for medicine. That was Marina’s wish.
From that day on, $300 left my account every month. Not a large sum, but for me, it was a sacred ritual, an act that reminded me I was still a good husband, that I still loved her. My friends said, “Live your life; this isn’t your responsibility forever.” I would only answer, “It’s not about her. It’s about Marina.”
Then came the day a letter from the bank changed everything. Donia Clara’s account had been closed, new information was needed. I tried calling her – the landline was dead, the cell rang, no answer. A heavy feeling swept over me, not just anger, but genuine worry.
For the first time since Marina’s death, I began to doubt. Maybe something had happened to her. I realized I hadn’t made a single real call in months, only sent thank-you messages.So I took time off. I would go myself, check on her, sort out the problem, maybe visit the places where Marina grew up – to close a chapter.
I drove. The road stretched out like a river, and as I drove, memories played like an old film: her laughter, her scent, her voice, calling me. I cried alone in the car, yet every drop felt like one last piece of closeness.
