“Your mother worked out the wording with the family attorney,” my father said.

He took out his pocket watch, checked the face, and snapped the gold case shut.

“She says Derek’s classmates bought front-row seats at the regional trade summit next month, and he needs the right capital to look the part among his peers.”

“The answer is no,” I said, sliding the blue folder back across the Formica table.

“I’m not signing this.”

My father sat completely still, his right hand resting beside his cold coffee cup.