I looked at the checkbook lying on the glass.

The gold monogram on its leather cover caught the flat morning light.

“What’s this, Mother?”

She uncapped her pen and wrote out an amount in slow, careful strokes.

She tore the slip from the binding and pushed it across the table to my side.

The check was written on her personal account at Oakridge National Bank, in the amount of two hundred thousand dollars.

“All we want is what’s best for Ethan, darling, and this check can help you start your new life after the service,” she said.