The morning the bank called, I almost let it ring out.
At seventy-two, I had earned the right to ignore numbers I didn’t recognize. Most of them were telemarketers, political surveys, or cheerful young people wanting to help me “optimize my retirement.” I had no interest in any of that. My mornings belonged to routine. I liked the kettle on at eight, the kitchen window cracked an inch to let in the Savannah air, and the first cup of coffee taken slowly enough to hear the neighborhood wake up around me.
So when my phone buzzed across the table and lit up with the number for the local branch of First Savannah Bank, I almost pressed decline.
Almost.
For forty years, I had kept my accounts there. First with Robert, then alone after he passed. I knew the tellers by face, if not always by name. They sent Christmas cards and asked after my garden. It felt rude not to answer.
