Clinton, in the upstairs hallway, his warm helpful voice: I’ll just swing by the branch and pick up all the monthly bank statements for Mom.

My youngest son.

My soft-hearted, eager boy.

He had gathered up my most private financial records believing he was sparing his grieving mother a trip downtown, and he had handed them, every page, directly to his aunt.

The casseroles and the photo albums and the gentle question about the house title — all of it had been Shirley assembling a complete picture of exactly what I was worth, using one of my own children as the unwitting courier.

It is a particular kind of pain, to discover that your own child has been turned into the instrument of the thing meant to harm you.