For seven years I went into the same bank and asked the same thing. The same question. The same answer

Most people don’t remember when I first started showing up.
To them, I was just a fixture. A quiet woman who drifted through the glass doors once a month like clockwork. A shadow in the lobby chairs.

But I remember.

I remember because each visit carried its own kind of ache. Because every time those doors slid open, I felt like I wasn’t entering a bank.

I was stepping into my son’s memory.

On the first Monday of every month, at exactly nine in the morning, I stood outside the downtown branch of Federal Trust Bank in Riverside, California. Not early. Not late. I respected time. Time had not respected me.

I never carried a purse.

I didn’t need one.

All I brought was my blue folder.

It was old now, the cardboard softened from years of holding it too tightly. The edges were bent. The plastic sleeve inside had yellowed. There was no cash in it. No checkbook.

Just copies. Notes. A death certificate. A photocopy of a driver’s license.

And a promise.

“Good morning,” I would say, my voice worn but steady. “I’m here to ask about my son’s account.”

At first, they treated me kindly. Polite smiles. Patient nods. The kind of courtesy people offer someone they assume is confused.

Then it became routine.