My Husband Said a Foster Child Would Leave With Nothing—Then a DNA Match Brought a Man With a Silver Cane to Our Divorce Hearing
The next morning, I counted the cash in my wallet and coat: $18.40.
The forgotten bank statement lay beside it.
I went to the branch as soon as I could get there.
The walk was long enough to leave my back aching, and I stopped twice rather than forcing myself to keep a pace I could not sustain.
Sarah, the teller, checked my identification and the account information.
She asked the necessary security questions.
I gave the street of our first apartment: Oakley Boulevard.
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