“Happy birthday—you’re going to a nursing home,” he said. I stayed silent. I had no idea the place belonged to me.

He agreed to everything.

As I left his office, I felt something I hadn’t felt since my wife’s last breath.

Not revenge.
Not triumph.

Justice.

The list arrived: fifteen names. Fifteen stories of abandonment. That same afternoon I called my lawyer, Montoya:

“I want everything donated,” I said. “Property, stocks, accounts. Leave me just a monthly pension.”

He remained silent, shocked.

—Mr. Salazar… your daughter…

“My daughter called me a burden on my birthday and left me here. The inheritance isn’t what she deserves. The consequences are.”

That week I signed documents, visited notaries, and handed out checks. I saw tears, trembling hands, and people grateful because they could buy medicine or repair roofs. My money stopped being just numbers. It became life.

And he knew Marcela would notice. And she did.

The following Saturday she appeared at the nursing home, furious, demanding to see me. When she saw me in the garden, she rushed towards me:

—Dad! What did you do? You donated everything!

I remained calm:

—Hi, Marcela. I thought I was in the way.

He showed me his cell phone full of bank notifications.

—That was mine!

—No. It was mine. And I decided that it should serve those who need it, not the person who humiliated me.

He threatened to sue, to have me declared legally incompetent.

“Everything is signed, legal, and executed,” I replied. “Are you going to take medicine away from abandoned elderly people?”