He wore his navy blazer with the polished brass buttons and carried a thin black binder under his arm.

His heavy dress shoes clicked sharply on the marble tiles as he stopped ten feet from the public counter.

“She never spent a single dollar of her own money on that farm,” my father shouted to the three women working behind the glass records window.

Two county deputies standing by the metal detector turned their heads to watch.

“She was off in military quarters for twenty years while I kept up every square foot of Cedar Lane,” my father said, his hearty boom echoing off the high plaster ceiling.

My mother twirled her single strand of pearls between her thumb and forefinger and kept her eyes on her leather shoes.