I thought of all the long evenings I had spent balancing their accounts at the kitchen table, believing that if I just provided enough security, respect would come.

That hope was gone now, swept away by the cold facts in Frank’s bank statements.

I reached into the inside pocket of my winter coat and took out a small white card instead of my leather wallet.

“I’m not doing this out of anger anymore, Eleanor,” I said, keeping my voice calm and low so the movers wouldn’t hear.

“I’m just finished paying for your choices.”

I stepped forward and laid the little card right in her open palm.