The alert came right on time, just like it always did – nine o’clock on the first day of every month.

She nodded, grateful and broken, and returned to her village.

From that day on, every single month, the money left my account. It wasn’t a fortune, but to me it was sacred—a quiet ritual that made me feel connected to my wife even after she was gone. Sending that money felt like proof that I was still a good husband. That I was honoring her memory.

My friends told me it was time to stop.

“Roberto, it’s been years,” my best friend Jorge would say over beers. “You can’t keep living like this. That woman isn’t your responsibility anymore.”

“It’s not about her,” I always replied. “It’s about Marina.”