I sat down.

I had signed an authorization, she told me — that was what the first page said.

But the second page, attached to it, used language I did not recognize, language that reached past household matters and touched the proceeds of the sale.

“Ruth,” I said, “that number was never supposed to be his to move.” She slid the folder toward me and pointed at the signature, and I put my finger beside it, and it was mine.

The number followed me home in my purse like a stone.