“It’s three-quarters of a million dollars, Valerie,” he said, his smooth businesslike phrasing cracking at the edges.

“You make a thirty-four-thousand-dollar county clerk’s salary.”

“I make enough to raise my son,” I said.

I turned to the lead mover and signaled him to close the back doors of the truck.

“That’s everything from the second floor,” the mover said, sliding the heavy metal latch into place.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You can drive it straight to the new address on Maple Street.”

My father stood by the iron gatepost, holding his leather binder against his chest as the truck pulled out into the street.