I spread the bills out side by side on the chenille bedspread.

There was one fifty, two twenties, one five and two ones.

Ninety-two dollars in cash was everything I had left in my name.

My mother looked down at the little pile of money on the bed.

“He’s emptied the account,” my mother said.

“He did the same thing eight years ago when he took out those private loans,” I said.

“He never leaves a paper trail until somebody forces him to.”