A minute passed.
Then another.
He turned toward me.
His expression had changed.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
He pulled out a chair.
“Please sit down.”
That was the moment I became afraid.
He slowly turned the monitor toward me.
Account balance:
$473,000.
I read it once.
Then again.
“That can’t be right.”
Arthur checked.
“It is.”
The account had been opened in my name when I was fifteen.
Grandpa Owen made the original deposit.
Then more deposits over the years.
Interest accumulated.
The final contribution had been made about six weeks before he died.
“You’re the sole owner,” Arthur explained.
“Nobody else can access it.”
I could barely breathe.
Then he hesitated.
“There’s one more thing you should know.”
A note had been attached to the account.
Approximately two years after my grandfather died, someone had come into the bank asking for information about it.
They were refused because they weren’t the account holder.
I asked the question even though some part of me already knew the answer.
“Who?”
Arthur looked at the record.
“Your father.”
And suddenly, Christmas Eve looked completely different.
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