There was never one dramatic fight on the front lawn; there was just a father at a kitchen table, signing form after form, losing overtime rather than reversing a single one of them, slowly coming to understand that convenience had been exactly the price Nana had counted on him being too tired and too frightened to refuse to pay.

He made mistakes, too, all through it — forgot an appointment once and had to call and apologize; sent me to school with no lunch one Tuesday, so I ate the emergency crackers I had started keeping in my backpack; bought the wrong size undershirts and opened the whole package before I could stop him.

We kept going anyway.

When Nana came by twice that winter, on his days off, I chose to sit in the living room and listen, because I wanted to hear what she said now that she could no longer tell a different story to every different person.

She never mentioned the padlock, or the chain.

She talked about casseroles and the weather and a neighbor’s dog.