My father left me $430,000.
I put it in savings and promised myself I wouldn’t touch it for at least two years.
Then one Tuesday morning, I stopped by the bank to check the balance.
The teller smiled politely.
“Your balance is $12,000.”
I laughed.
“I’m sorry. What?”
She checked again.
“Twelve thousand, four hundred and eighteen dollars.”
My stomach dropped.
“That’s impossible. I haven’t withdrawn anything.”
The manager came over.
He pulled up the account records and turned the monitor toward me.
There were hundreds of transactions.
$8,000.
$8,000.
$8,000.
Every two weeks.
For nearly two years.
“Who authorized these?” I whispered.
“They were all made in person.”
“With my ID?”
“Yes.”
He paused.
“Someone has been coming into this bank using your driver’s license.”
I pulled my wallet from my purse.
He compared my license with the records.
Same name.
Same photograph.
But the address was different.
“That’s not my address.”
“I know.”
He pulled up the security footage from the most recent withdrawal.
A woman walked into the bank wearing a beige coat.
She had my haircut.
My glasses.
Even the same slight limp I’d had since I injured my ankle years ago.
She approached the counter.
Signed my name.
Collected $8,000.
Then she turned toward the security camera.
I stopped breathing.
I knew that face.
I knew the way she tilted her head.
I knew the tiny scar beside her eyebrow.
The manager looked at me.
“Do you know her?”
I couldn’t speak.
Finally, I whispered,
“Yes.”
He waited.
“She’s my sister.”
