My mother sat next to him in her light gray sweater, stirring her coffee with her silver spoon in slow, even circles.

“We only want to keep the bank from sticking a red repossession notice on the front porch, sweetheart,” my mother whispered, her voice soft and cautious.

I took my black leather record ledger out of my bag and laid it flat next to his stack of yellow sheets.

“The mortgage was paid on the first of every month by direct bank transfer,” I said, pointing at the neatly ruled rows.

“The balance is current, and the credit union sent a green zero-balance receipt in October.”