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

The next morning I put on the gray jacket like armor and went downstairs to observe how the nursing home functioned: clean, tidy… but emotionally cold. In the dining room, the elderly residents ate in silence, while the director paced them, hurrying them along.

—Hurry up! We don’t have all day. The lights go out at eight!

I saw bowed heads, tired eyes. It hurt me. Not because I was there as a resident, but because I knew I had created this place to be a home, not a barracks.

Back in my room, I took the envelope and asked the nurse to notify the director:

—I need to speak with him early tomorrow. It’s urgent.

She looked at me as if she sensed something different.

—I’ll tell him, Mr. Salazar.

At the appointed time, I entered the director’s office. He didn’t even get up.

—What do you need? You have five minutes.

I sat down calmly, placed the envelope on the desk, and took out the document. I unfolded it in front of him. At first, he read it with boredom… until his face changed. The arrogance vanished in seconds. He read, stammering:

—Owner… Esteban Salazar Mendoza…

I pulled out an old laminated ID: Founder — Salazar Real Estate Group . His hand trembled, the coffee cup almost fell from his hand.

—Mr. Salazar… I… didn’t know… forgive me…

I raised my hand:

-Silence.

He was instantly speechless.

—I came here as an ordinary resident for a reason. I wanted to see with my own eyes how people are treated. And I saw it. That changes today.

He swallowed.

—What do you want, sir?

—Two things. First: respect. No shouting, rushing, or humiliation. Second: I’ll stay here as just another resident… and no one will know who I am. Only you.