My Family Tried to Evict Me from the Craftsman House My Grandparents Left Me
I stood up and smoothed the front of my trousers. Twelve thousand dollars was almost the exact balance of my personal savings account, the money I had set aside from my salary over four years of accounting work.
“I will be back by noon,” I said.
The walk to the bank on the corner of Lemon Street took less than ten minutes, but the dry valley heat made the air feel heavy.
Inside the lobby, the air conditioning hummed, a cool contrast to the dusty street. I waited behind a stanchion with a velvet rope until a teller with a small silver name tag pointed me toward her window.
“I need to make a withdrawal,” I said, sliding my debit card across the counter.
The teller, a young woman named Brenda, ran the card and looked at her screen.
“How would you like that paid out?” she asked.
“A cashier’s check,” I said. “For twelve thousand dollars.”
Brenda tapped her keys, then paused, her eyes shifting from the screen to my face.
“This will leave seventy-four dollars in your personal account,” she said.
