At my wedding, my grandfather handed me an old savings book. My father snatched it from my hands, saying, “That bank closed in the 80s. It’s lost.” My grandfather died shortly after. I went to the bank anyway. The manager looked through the files, glanced up at me, and said, “Sir, perhaps you should sit down…”

David paused.

“Mr. Mercer, your grandfather made a deposit every month for fifty-two years, two hundred dollars a month without fail, from March 1971 to February of this year.”

I stared at him.

“That’s impossible. My grandfather was broke. He lived in a tiny house. He’d been driving a truck since 1987. He wore the same clothes for thirty years.”

“I cannot comment on his life choices. I can only tell you what the documents show.”

David leaned forward.

“Mr. Mercer, perhaps you should come to my office. This conversation requires some confidentiality.”

I followed them to a corner office with glass walls offering a view of the Cleveland skyline. Patricia closed the door behind us. David sat down at his desk and began typing something on his computer.

“The initial deposit, in March 1971, was $8,000,” he said, reading from the screen. “A considerable sum for the time. Your grandfather then set up an automatic transfer of $200 per month from a checking account at the same bank. This transfer continued uninterrupted for fifty-two years.”

“Fifty-two years at two hundred dollars a month,” I said, doing the math in my head. “That’s about one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in savings.”

“Yes. But it was a high-yield savings account with compound interest. In 1985, your grandfather converted part of the funds into certificates of deposit, which were subsequently renewed several times at favorable rates. In 1992, he also purchased, through our investment subsidiary, reinvested dividend shares in several top-tier companies.”

“My grandfather did all that? He barely finished high school.”

“Someone did it. The records show that the decisions were made in person at that branch, with valid identification.”

David turned the screen so I could see him.

“Mr. Mercer, the current account balance, including all associated investments, is $3,412,647.31.”

The room tilted. I grabbed the armrest of my chair.

“That’s not possible,” I heard myself say. “That’s not… My grandfather was poor. Everyone knew he was poor. He lived as if he didn’t have a penny to his name.”

“The story says the opposite.”

David’s voice was gentle.

“Mr. Mercer, is everything alright? May I bring you some water?”

“Three million dollars? My grandfather had three million dollars?”