Twenty-seven years my best friend brought me money every month and said, “That’s your late husband’s debt.” After her death, the bank’s director opened a secret account with me – and I was dumbfounded.
For twenty-seven years, the first Monday of each month began in the same way.
At exactly ten in the morning, my best friend Maria was knocking on the door of my apartment in Sofia.
He would walk in almost without talking, sit at the kitchen table, and take out a white envelope from his bag.
There was always the same amount inside – eight hundred levs.
"That's Dimitar's duty," she said.
Dimitar was my husband.
She died at the age of forty-six and left me alone with two teenage children, an outstanding home loan and a bank account in which there was almost nothing left.
When Maria offered me the money for the first time, I refused.
Dimitar would never take a loan from you.
“She took it,” she replied, without looking me in the eye. “I promised him I would bring him back.”
- Then show me a contract.
- There isn't one.
She left the envelope on the table and left.
I didn't touch him all day.
But that same week, our heating stopped, and my son Kaloyan's winter shoes were torn in front.
I sat by the kitchen table and watched the white envelope next to the box of sugar.
I didn't open it right away.
I felt like if I touched the money, I'd admit something I didn't understand. That Dimitar really had secrets from me. That my closest friend knew something about my husband that I didn't know.
But in the evening, Kaloyan came home from school wearing wet socks.
It was snowing, and the water had gone through his torn shoes. He was fourteen and trying to look big, but his lips were shaking with cold.
My daughter Elitsa had closed herself in her room and was not going out.
He was sixteen and he hasn't spoken to me normally for weeks. Since Dimitar died, it was as if she had decided that if she was angry with me, she would not have to admit how much her father missed her.
I went into the kitchen, took the envelope and opened it.
Eight hundred levs.
No more.
Not less.
I paid for the heating.
I bought Kaloyan shoes.
I bought meat, bread, fruit and a small box of caramel cream, because Elitsa loved it, although it did not touch it then.
When Maria came the next month, I was waiting for her by the door.
"I can't take this every time," I said.
She held her bag with both hands.
She was forty-five then, just two years younger than me. Her hair was dark, tucked away in a bun, and her face always looked a little tired. He worked in a bank, but never talked about his job.
"You can," he replied.
I don’t want to live on your back.
You don't live on my back.
Whose money is that?
She looked at me.
There was something strange about her eyes. Not guilt. Not fear.
Rather sadness.
– To Dimitar.
Dimitar is dead.
Debts don’t die with people.
What debt? For what?
She left the envelope on the table.
Don't make me talk about it, Vera.
- Why? I need to know, right?
- Someday you will understand.
- When?
When the time comes.
That made me angry.
Don’t talk to me like a cheap series. My husband died three months ago. We have no money. My children are suffering. I have a right to know why you come here with envelopes.
Maria closed her eyes for a moment.
Then he said softly:
- You're right. But I still can't.
- You can't or you don't want to?
- Both.
She's gone.
I stayed in the kitchen with the envelope.
I hated that money.
I hated that I needed them.
I hated that every account they bought made me feel like I was selling my right to ask questions.
But I accepted them.
First a month.
Then second.
Then a whole year.
Then life started happening on these envelopes.
With the eight hundred levs a month I managed to keep the apartment. It wasn't much. They were never enough for everything. But enough of what I couldn't postpone.
One account.
One installment.
Textbooks.
Medicines.
New shoes.
Then Elitsa applied to university.
Then Kaloyan finished school.
Then I started working in a small flower shop next to the Women's Market. I was making bouquets for weddings, funerals and birthdays. It was strange how the same bouquet could bring so many different feelings.
Maria didn't miss a single month.
First Monday.
Ten hours.
Knocking on the door.
White envelope.
“This is Dimitar’s duty.”
At first, the neighbors asked.
