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Three hours after we buried my wife, my daughter found an old bankbook tucked beneath Evelyn’s sewing supplies and tossed it into the bedroom trash. “Dad, Mom never had anything worth worrying about,” she said before walking downstairs to entertain the guests. I waited until she was gone, retrieved the little green book, and drove to the bank. When the branch president saw the account number, he closed his office door and said, “Mr. Bennett, I need you to tell me exactly who else knows you have this.”
Part 1 I can still remember the sound the bankbook made when it landed in the wastebasket. A soft slap against a folded funeral...
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