The black cast-iron frying pan sat cold on the dead burner, coated with a thin film of gray grease.

I put my coffee mug down on the edge of the mahogany desk beside my mother’s pile of mail.

She sat in the wooden swivel chair by the window, folding a white paper napkin into narrow triangles and pressing the creases flat with her thumb.

“I pulled up the bank statement on my computer,” I said, pointing at the open browser window on the screen.

“The three thousand dollars I wired landed in the joint checking account on September third.