Desperate times

The earrings are of enormous sentimental value. They were my great-grandmother's. She was in a hospice-like place during the blockade, and she died one day after my grandmother brought her bread there. The hospice returned the earrings and a diamond ring, but not the bread. To transport the ring out of the Soviet Union, my mother removed the stone from its setting and fit it into a whole in her tooth. It was one of the few things she was actually able to take with her. I'm glad she didn't throw it away in a greasy paper towel.

Usually, when my mom complains about something dad's done, I give him the benefit of the doubt, but this time she's right, and I'm actually surprised because he's pretty paranoid. He's been hand-shredding mail since before it was cool. Nonetheless, he took the envelope with the safety deposit box key in it and wrote on it the name and address of the bank, as well as the box number. For no benefit to any of us, since we all know which bank it is and remember the number. We are crossing it out.