Not the amount.

The translation.

To me, that shoreline was thirty years of a marriage — the summer we built the dock, the July Colette learned to swim off the end of it, the last good autumn before Faye got sick, when we sat wrapped in one blanket and watched the leaves come down on the water.

To whoever had filed that loan, the identical patch of ground was a line on an application, a figure of collateral, a lever to pull for cash.

They had stood in the same spot I was standing and seen nothing of what I saw — none of the history, none of the love, none of the ten thousand ordinary mornings that had made the place holy to me.