The smiles faded. The patience thinned. I became an interruption.
“Name on the account?” they would ask, not looking up.
“Christopher James Bennett,” I’d reply. Always the same tone. Always clear.
They typed. Waited. Clicked again.
“There’s no account under that name, ma’am.”
I would nod as if I were hearing it for the first time.
“Could you check again?” I’d ask softly. “It was opened in April, seven years ago. Here. Downtown Riverside. The last two digits were 73.”
Some employees would exchange glances. Some would sigh loudly enough for me to hear.
“Ma’am, there is nothing in our system. Maybe your son banked somewhere else.”
I would close the folder carefully. Gently. As if it contained something fragile.
“Thank you,” I’d say. “I’ll come back next month.”
And I did.
For seven years.
They started whispering when I walked in. I didn’t need to hear the words to know them. You can feel ridicule in the air.
The security guards recognized me. One of them once blocked the entrance.
“You can’t keep coming in here asking the same thing,” he said, not unkindly. “They’ve already explained.”
I looked at him. Calm. Tired. Unmoving.
“I’m not causing trouble,” I told him. “I’m asking about my son’s money.”