The December sky hung low and gray. A chilly breeze slipped under the door of our modest home. I wrapped my worn flannel shawl tighter as I stood outside my son Matthew’s bedroom.
In my hands was a slim bank envelope—inside, a passbook showing a deposit of over $20,000. It was an inheritance from my late brother, who’d passed away in Phoenix. I planned to renovate the house, build a better room for Matthew’s family, and keep the rest for medical emergencies, just in case.
But instead of greetings, I overheard this:
