I walk across the street.This building is part of who I am, its blond brick and black windows. The awning above, a dark blue withSummers Accountingin bold white font. I remember when my dad bought it. He tied a ribbon across the glass door so he could cut it with scissors, my mom, sisters, and me standing there. Owning a business was his dream.
But it’s not mine.
The bell clangs against the glass when I enter.
“Dad?” I call out.
“Sadie?” he shouts from his back office before he rolls out. His wheels turn quicker as he makes his way down the hallway until he stops in front of me, his eyes filling with relief. “You’re back.”
I swallow, nod, and lean over to embrace him, smelling grease and salt from Ruthie’s Café—Dad loves their hamburgers and fries. He hugs me tightly before letting go.
“We were so worried about you. Your sisters kept saying you were fine, but . . .” He pauses, taking all of me in. “You look better than fine. You look happy, Sadie.”
His words warm me from within but also remind me of what Paisley had said about Milo.
Happy.
I smile. “Thanks, Dad. I need to talk to you.”
“It’s about the promotion, isn’t it? I scared you. I thought it might be too soon. I should have waited. Should have listened to your mother.” His words come quickly, regret heavy on his tongue.
I lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Can we go to your office?” I ask.
He turns around and I follow him, passing my own office on the way—my plain, impersonal space where I never wanted to hang up anything that made me feel like I belonged here. That probably should have been my first sign all those years ago.
We enter his office which shows a completely different appreciation for this place. The walls are painted a dark gray with photos in frames throughout the room—several of Sophie, Emma, and me. There’s one from my high school graduation, my sisters leaning their heads on my shoulders. One from the day my dad put up the tire swing in front of our house—me on the swing holding Emma, while Sophie was hanging from a branch up higher. There’s my parents’ wedding photo—both holding a large cutting knife, my mom’s hands on top of his, as they sliced into their three-tiered cake.
I take a seat in the wooden chair across from my dad.
“It’s not just about the promotion,” I admit slowly.
My dad swallows. “Then what is it, Sadie girl?”
“I quit,” I say, the simple words lifting a weight I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
“You quit?” he asks, his green eyes wide.
I laugh and it takes us both by surprise—my lips curve upward, while his part in shock.
“I’m not living the life I want to, Dad. I hate numbers,” I confess.
His eyes brighten and he chuckles. “But you’re so good at them.”
“I know I am, but just because you’re good at something, doesn’t mean that’s what you’re meant to do.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, smiling at each other. Something unspoken passes between us—years of it.
His eyes sayI wondered when you’d choose yourself.
I hope mine answerI’m finally learning how.
He finally nods. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”
“You’ll figure it out,” I say softly.
“Sadie.” My name is soft and warm when my dad speaks it. “It’s not your fault, you know. I know I’ve told you that a million times, but what happened to me . . .”
My eyes begin to water, and I’m startled that I have any tears left.
