It was the Trojan kind.

That is the detail I found hardest to forgive, reading it there on the floor in the dark — not the greed itself, but the route the greed had traveled.

My father had not broken into a stranger’s accounts.

He had been handed the keys.

My grandfather, at the lowest point of his life, mourning the woman he’d been married to for fifty years, had looked at his son and done the most natural thing a father can do: he had trusted him.

He had said, in effect, I am too sad to think about money right now, will you carry this for me, and my father had said yes, and had used that yes, that raw grieving trust, as the opening.