I had it there for seven years — a photocopy of a cashier’s check, five million dollars, pay to the order of Claire Whitaker — and for seven years I told visiting law students it was a reminder that people reveal themselves.

It is a reminder that people reveal themselves. It is also a document from an evening my grandmother rehearsed for six weeks in front of her housekeeper, and I could no longer stand at a whiteboard and use it as a parable while knowing that.

I don’t know what to do with it. It’s face-down on a shelf in my hall closet. It has been there fourteen months. Maybe I’ll give it to Sydney one day and tell her both halves, which is the only responsible way to hand anybody that piece of paper.

Money doesn’t change character. It announces it.

She was right, and I have watched it be right for a decade, and I would carve it on something.

What I didn’t understand at thirty-two — sitting in her living room, holding her medical evaluations, absolutely certain — is that it announces everyone’s. Including hers.