Thursday at ten, Warren walked me in holding my elbow like a good boy, proud as ever to sign my papers for me. He did not notice the shoebox until we were seated. Then he saw it, my handwriting in pencil on the lid, and his hand slid off my elbow. The manager folded her hands exactly as she promised and asked him to explain the monthly withdrawal marked management. He started with that leaky-faucet sigh he saves for me. “Ma, these are complicated things, you’ll upset yourself.”

The manager did not blink. “Sir,” she said, “the withdrawal. Please walk us through it.” Then the elder services gentleman slid one page across the desk and tapped the transfer that left my account on the third of every month, made out to a woman’s name I had never heard in my life. “And this, Mr. Warren,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you can tell us who this Miss is.” My son looked at me then, and for the first time in five years, he understood that the confused old woman he handed fifty dollars every Friday had counted every dollar he thought I’d never see.