Gregory Pruitt, the manager, shut his office door and turned his monitor toward me. “Mrs. Hollis, your husband opened this account thirty-one years ago. In all that time, no one has ever touched it.” I read the balance once, then again, because the first time it made no sense. Eleven million, four hundred thousand dollars. My hands began to shake on the wheels of my chair.

Then he lifted a cream envelope from his desk drawer. My name was written across it in Walter’s cramped handwriting, and beneath it, one more line: Open only if Daniel turns her away. Mr. Pruitt swallowed hard. “He told us you would come, ma’am. He also asked me to show you a document about the house your son lives in. I have waited years to hand you this.” The seal cracked under my thumb.