I sat in the small, plush chair across from the bank manager, my fingers drumming gently on the folder, a steady rhythm to match the racing of my heart. The bank manager was a kind-looking man, with silver hair and a reassuring smile, the kind that suggested he had seen it all and wasn’t easily fazed by much.
“Mrs. Thompson,” he started, leaning across the desk with genuine concern. “What can I do for you today?”
“I need to remove my son as an authorized user from my account,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. I had practiced this in my head all night, the words forming a litany that grounded me in purpose rather than fear. I unfolded the papers, and the manager’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the meticulously organized evidence.
