“My ex-husband gave me that card years ago,” I explained quietly.
The teller swallowed hard.
“I need to get my branch manager. I don’t understand why we haven’t called you sooner,” she said.
I gripped the counter. Maybe Walter had somehow found one last way to humiliate me from a distance.
Then the branch manager walked toward me, holding a sealed envelope.
On the envelope was Walter’s crooked handwriting.
“Ma’am,” the manager said softly, “we’ve been waiting five years to give this to you.”.
