I got married at 30, with nothing to my name. My wife’s family wasn’t well off either; there was only her father—Mr. Velasco—almost 70, frail, quiet, living on a veteran’s pension.

Immediately after the wedding, he moved in with my wife and me and stayed with us until his last day.

For 20 years, he didn’t contribute a single peso toward electricity, water, food, or medicine. He didn’t take care of the grandchildren, didn’t cook, and didn’t clean. Some even called him a “first-class parasite.”

I got annoyed sometimes, but then I thought, “He’s an old man, my father-in-law; if I complain, who will take care of him?

” So I kept quiet. But honestly, I often felt resentful inside.

Sometimes I would come home tired from work, open the empty refrigerator, and see him calmly sipping coffee as if it had nothing to do with him.

Then, one day, he passed away, and I thought that was the end of it… He passed away peacefully at 89.

No serious illness, no hospital stays.

That morning, my wife brought him atole and discovered he was no longer breathing. I didn’t feel much emotion, partly because he was old, partly because… I had grown accustomed to his presence like a shadow in the house.

The funeral was simple. No one in my wife’s family was wealthy, so my wife and I handled all the arrangements.

Three days later, a man in a suit appeared at our door, and I almost dropped the glass of water I was holding.

He was a lawyer, carrying a stack of files. After verifying my identity, he handed me a red folder and said,

“According to Mr. Velasco’s will, you are the sole heir to all his personal assets.”

I let out a weak laugh, thinking he was joking. “What assets? He was a parasite on my family for two decades; he didn’t even own a decent pair of sandals.”

But the lawyer opened page after page seriously:

A 115-square-meter plot of land right in the center of town, transferred to my name two years ago.

A savings account valued at over 3.2 million Mexican pesos, with my name as the beneficiary.

A handwritten letter from Mr. Velasco, asking the lawyer to keep it safe: “This son-in-law of mine complains a lot, but he supported me for 20 years without ever going without food.

My daughter is lazy, and he took on all the burdens. I’ve lived a long life; I know who’s good and who’s not. He doesn’t need me to pay him, but I can’t die without leaving him anything.”

I froze, tears welling up, though I didn’t understand why.

It turned out he wasn’t poor at all. That land was ancestral property, which he had kept completely secret, never saying a word about it.

The savings account was money he had accumulated throughout his life from his pension and government benefits, with compound interest, untouched by a single peso.

He chose to bequeath it to me, whom he once considered a “parasite,” whom he even wished would move away.

That night, I sat alone in front of his altar, lighting an incense stick. Looking at his smiling photo, I whispered:

“I was wrong, Father…”

“All your life, you lived in silence, letting no one owe you anything, not even the one who once considered you a burden.”