Finally, Tristan called him to a desk tucked away, away from welcoming chairs and friendly tellers. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes cold. “You claim an account, but you have no guardian, no proper ID. This is absurd.”
“I have my school ID, the letter, and my card,” Eliot said, voice trembling but firm. Tristan tossed the school ID across the desk. “This proves nothing.” He pressed, cruelly, about his parents. Eliot replied that he lived with Rafael, who was coming shortly.
Before Tristan could retort, Chelsea Moran, a teller, whispered something in his ear. Tristan froze. “I’m freezing the account pending investigation,” he barked. Eliot’s heart sank.
Hours of humiliation threatened to break him, but the teachings of his grandmother—dignity is carried, not given—kept him upright. Jerome Fields, the security guard, watched with shame clawing at him. Eleven years he had stayed silent while injustice unfolded; today he was still paralyzed.