By eight forty-five I was sitting on the rose-patterned sofa in my mother’s living room.

Ruth adjusted her reading glasses on their silver chain while she studied the brass key and the copy of the deposit slip I’d laid out on the coffee table.

My father sat in his wingback chair beside the floor lamp, staring down at his carpet slippers without saying a word.

“This deposit slip has the official teller stamp from the downtown branch,” Ruth said, her voice crisp and careful.

“And this key has the number four hundred eight stamped near the ring.”