I laid my hands flat on the worn green cover and felt the rough fabric beneath my palms.

Outside the window, the tall oak ridge stood black against the evening sky, quiet and wide open.

The air in the Royal Credit Union branch in Menomonie smelled of damp wool and floor wax.

“I need to see our old joint checking statements from 2022 through last December,” I told the teller behind the glass counter.

She tapped at her keyboard with manicured nails, her screen throwing blue light across her glasses.

“I can print those five years for you, Amy, but anything after the divorce decree went through in October will only show your own account.”