My parents called my husband “half a man” because of his height for twelve years until they went broke

At five in the afternoon, the clay on my pottery wheel had gone cold and stiff. My hands were coated in dry gray dust, the grey slip drying in the creases of my palms, when the landline in the corner of my studio rang, its bell loud against the concrete walls.

I wiped my palms on my canvas apron, leaving white streaks across the dark fabric, and picked up the receiver.

“Claire, it’s Martha,” my sister said.

Her voice had the flat, bureaucratic edge she used when she was sitting behind her mahogany desk at Oak Ridge Bank, but she was breathing too quickly, her words clipping together.

“Martha, I’m right in the middle of a batch of mugs,” I said.

“Listen to me,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper that buzzed in the receiver. “I’m calling from the bank’s back hallway on my personal phone. I just saw two men in grey suits leaving the commercial recovery office with a file on Mom and Dad’s condo.”

“The marina condo?” I asked, adjusting my silver wedding band with my thumb. “Why would anyone be looking at their file?”