I barely slept that night.
Every time I turned over, I remembered my father's expression when he saw the check.
Then I remembered Grandma's hand on my wrist.
Those two things didn't belong together.
My father had looked at the paper for barely a second before deciding it was worthless.
Grandma had looked at me as if keeping it mattered.
I didn't know which of them understood the situation.
By six in the morning, I had stopped pretending I was going to fall asleep again.
I got out of bed, made coffee, and opened the drawer in the kitchen.
The envelope was exactly where I had left it.
I took it out and placed it on the table.
For several minutes, I just stared at it.
I could call Grandma.
That was the obvious thing to do.
But I imagined my father answering if she had already gone downstairs.
I imagined him asking why I was still talking about a joke.
I imagined Marcus hearing about it and finding another reason to laugh at me.
I put my phone down.
I didn't want to ask my family what the check meant.
I wanted to know whether it was real.
That was a question someone at a bank could answer better than anyone at my Christmas table.
I searched through my documents for the check again, checking that I hadn't accidentally left it somewhere else.
Then I examined the front carefully.
I wasn't looking for anything sophisticated.
I didn't know how to identify a counterfeit financial document.
I simply wanted to make sure I hadn't overlooked something obvious.
The check had my name.
The amount was written clearly.
The signature was there.
Nothing immediately explained why everyone had laughed.
I put it back into the envelope.
Then I got dressed.
I chose a plain sweater, dark trousers, and the coat I wore when the temperature dropped below freezing.
Before leaving, I checked my handbag twice.
The envelope was inside.
I don't know why I felt nervous.
I wasn't planning to deposit the money without asking questions.
I wasn't planning to spend anything.
I just wanted someone qualified to look at it.
Still, the thought of walking into a bank with a check for five million dollars made my stomach tighten.
It felt ridiculous.
But so had the thought of leaving it in a drawer forever.
I drove downtown as the morning traffic began to build.
The sky was pale gray.
The sidewalks were crowded with people carrying coffee and rushing toward work.
Everyone seemed to have somewhere important to be.
I was on my way to ask whether my grandmother had given me a worthless piece of paper.
I almost turned around twice.
At the second red light, I reached for the envelope.
I didn't open it.
I just touched the edge of it through my handbag.
Then the light changed.
I kept driving.
The bank was in a large office building with glass doors and a polished stone lobby.
I had been there before, years earlier, to resolve a problem with an old account.
Back then, I had spoken to a teller, signed a few forms, and left with a printed receipt.
I had never needed a private appointment.
I had never dealt with a bank manager.
And I had certainly never walked through those doors carrying a document that might represent more money than I could imagine spending in a lifetime.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee and floor cleaner.
A few customers stood in line near the counters.
A security guard sat beside the entrance.
I waited until a teller was free.
She looked up with a professional smile.
"Good morning. What can I help you with?"
I placed the envelope on the counter.
"I received this from a family member, and I'd like to know whether it's legitimate."
She opened the envelope and removed the check.
At first, she looked at it casually.
Then her eyes moved back to the amount.
Her smile faded slightly.
She glanced at me.
"May I ask how you received this?"
"My grandmother gave it to me last night."
The teller looked down again.
She didn't laugh.
That was the first thing I noticed.
She also didn't tell me it was obviously fake.
Instead, she turned the check over and examined it more closely.
I stood there with my hands clasped in front of me, trying not to look as nervous as I felt.
After a moment, she picked up the telephone beside her workstation.
"I'm going to ask someone to review this."
"Is there a problem?"
"I'd rather have a manager take a look before I give you an answer."
She spoke calmly, but something about the way she handled the paper made my stomach tighten.
She placed the check inside a clear document sleeve.
Then she asked me to wait.
I sat in a chair near the customer service desks.
A man in a business suit was speaking quietly with another employee.
A woman was signing paperwork beside the windows.
Somebody's phone rang and stopped.
Ordinary things.
I watched them because I didn't know what else to do.
A few minutes later, the teller returned.
"Ms. Whitaker?"
I stood.
"The manager would like to speak with you."
I followed her down a short hallway to a small office.
The manager was a middle-aged man with neatly combed hair and a dark tie.
He introduced himself, offered me a chair, and placed the check on his desk.
He didn't touch it immediately.
Instead, he looked at me.
"You said your grandmother gave you this?"
"Yes."
"Last night?"
"At Christmas dinner."
He nodded slowly.
"Did she explain the reason for the gift?"
"No. Not really."
I felt foolish admitting that.
A normal person might have asked more questions before leaving a family gathering with a check for five million dollars.
But I hadn't known what to ask.
Everyone else had been laughing.
I had been too busy trying to decide whether I was the only person in the room who wanted to take Grandma seriously.
The manager turned his attention to the document.
He examined it, checked information on his computer, and made a note on a piece of paper.
Then he picked up the telephone.
He spoke in a low voice that I couldn't fully hear.
I caught a few words about verification.
Then he gave the person on the other end some information and waited.
I stared at the edge of his desk.
There was a small scratch in the wood near his right hand.
I found myself counting the seconds between his movements.
He listened.
Asked another question.
Listened again.
Then he ended the call.
For a moment, he said nothing.
I shifted in my chair.
"Is it fake?"
He looked at me.
"I'm not prepared to give you a final answer yet."
I felt the disappointment before he finished speaking.
Of course.
I had known it was possible.
Grandma could have been making a strange joke.
Someone could have created the checks for an occasion she thought would be amusing.
The bank might have needed more time to determine what I was looking at.
I took a breath.
"That's fine. I just wanted to check."
The manager didn't return the check.
Instead, he opened a folder and began reviewing the information again.
His expression had changed.
The casual professionalism I had seen when I first entered the office was gone.
He looked concentrated now.
Almost troubled.
He asked me to confirm my full name.
I did.
He asked whether I had identification.
I handed him my driver's license.
He compared it with the name on the check.
Then he asked for my telephone number.
I gave it to him.
He wrote it down.
"Ms. Whitaker, I'm going to need a few more minutes."
I nodded.
He stood and stepped into the hallway, taking the check with him.
I remained in the office.
The door was partly open.
I could hear his voice, but not his words.
He returned several minutes later with another employee.
The second man looked at the check.
Then he looked at the computer screen.
Neither of them spoke to me at first.
I began to feel embarrassed all over again.
Maybe they were trying to decide how to explain that the check was fraudulent without making me feel worse than I already did.
Maybe they were discussing whether someone had attempted to deceive me.
Maybe they were wondering why a woman who worked two jobs had walked into a bank with a document like this.
I wanted to tell them that I hadn't asked for the money.
I wanted to explain that I wasn't trying to get anything for free.
But nobody had accused me of anything.
So I kept quiet.
The second employee eventually left.
The manager sat down again.
He folded his hands on the desk.
"Ms. Whitaker, I need to ask you something."
I looked at him.
"All right."
"Does your grandmother have a relationship with this bank?"
"I don't know."
"Do you know where she maintains her accounts?"
"No."
He paused.
"Has she ever discussed an inheritance or a financial gift with you?"
"No."
That answer came out more quickly than the others.
Grandma had never promised me money.
She had never told me I would inherit anything.
She had never sat me down to explain her finances.
We talked about ordinary things.
My work.
Her garden.
The books she was reading.
Sometimes she asked about my apartment or whether I had found a better position.
She didn't discuss her wealth.
If she had any.
I looked at the check on the desk.
"Can you tell me whether it's real?"
The manager took a breath.
"I'm trying to establish exactly what we can confirm."
It wasn't the answer I wanted.
But it wasn't a dismissal either.
He turned toward his computer again.
I sat very still.
Then he picked up the telephone for a second time.
This conversation lasted longer.
He listened without interrupting.
Once, he looked at me and then at the check.
When he finally put the receiver down, he didn't immediately move.
I watched his face.
Something had happened.
I couldn't tell what.
But whatever it was, it had changed the way he looked at me.
He stood and walked to the office door.
"Would you mind waiting here while I speak with another member of our team?"
I nodded.
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I stared at the envelope on the desk.
It was the same plain white envelope Grandma had handed me the night before.
I had carried it through the city, across the bank lobby, and into this small office.
My family had treated it as a joke.
I had almost agreed with them.
Now a bank manager was making telephone calls, checking records, and refusing to give me a simple answer.
For the first time since Christmas dinner, I wondered whether my family had been wrong for a reason much bigger than embarrassment.
I thought about my father's check lying beside his plate.
I thought about Marcus offering me twenty dollars for mine.
And I thought about Grandma telling me not to lose it.
The manager returned with a folder.
He sat down, placed it in front of him, and looked directly at me.
"Ms. Whitaker, before we go any further, I need you to understand something."
I waited.
He opened the folder.
Then he looked at the check again.
And I realized that whatever he was about to tell me, it wasn't going to be a joke.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: The Manager Stopped Treating Me Like Someone Who Had Brought in a Prank, and Suddenly I Wanted My Family to Be Wrong
My Family Decided Grandma Had Lost Her Mind Before Anyone Thought to Ask Why She Had Chosen That Christmas Night to Give Us Five Million Dollars Each
Part 2 of 4
