“I gave him eight thousand dollars in July,” he said.

“Out of the store account.

He told me it was for the baby’s room and a hospital bill that insurance wouldn’t cover.”

I held the door and said nothing.

“Eight thousand, and a signature on a note that isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on.” He took his glasses off and folded them once.

“I want your lawyer’s number in the morning.

I want it back, in Maya’s name, with interest, and I don’t care what it costs his mother to hear it in open court.”