My son froze my cards so I couldn’t even buy groceries. He thinks he controls our $42 million empire—but one call from the bank made me realize he has no idea what I’m about to do. First my credit card declined. Then my debit.

I called the bank from the parking lot, my fingers trembling so hard I had to redial twice after fumbling the prompts. The hold music was a string quartet version of some pop song I half recognized, and I remember thinking, absurdly, that the world should not be allowed to continue arranging nonsense into elegance while my life tipped sideways. When a customer service representative finally came on the line, I was already no longer the woman who had entered Whole Foods twenty-five minutes earlier.

“This is Nora Morrison,” I said. “All of my cards have been declined. There must be some error.”

The young man on the other end typed for a moment. “Mrs. Morrison, I’m showing that your accounts were frozen this morning at 6:47 a.m.”

“Frozen by whom?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t give you those details over the phone. You’ll need to come into a branch with identification and speak to a manager.”

I closed my eyes. “I did not authorize any freeze.”

“I understand, ma’am. The downtown branch opens at nine. They’ll be able to help you.”