The phone rings, echoing through my small office filled with metal filing cabinets and too many wires because my dad refuses to update the systems to “that newfangled technology that relies too much on something in the sky.”
I clear my throat, answering, “Summers Accounting, Sadie speaking. How may I help you?”
A dry voice answers. “Sadie, it’s Mrs. Thomas. I got my tax return, and I’m confused about a few things.”
“I’d be happy to help, Mrs. Thomas. What seems to be confusing you?” I ask.
“Well, I don’t get why my refund is smaller this year when Ididn’t do anything different. I didn’t buy anything extravagant. Unless you count a new mattress, but that was on sale.”
I smile even though she can’t see me. “The mattress isn’t the issue. Let me pull everything up and walk through it with you.”
As I click through her file, I already know the answer. The answer is almost always the same—a pension adjustment. A deduction that quietly expired. Life inching forward while you’re too busy trying to keep up with it.
“I see it here,” I say gently. “Your husband’s benefits shifted categories last year, which changed the taxable amount. It’s frustrating, but it’s nothing you did wrong.”
“Well, that feels unfair,” she says.
“I agree,” I reply before I can stop myself, then quickly add, “but we can plan ahead for next year so there aren’t any surprises.”
She hums thoughtfully. “Okay. You always explain things so well, Sadie. Your daddy has taught you well.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you, Mrs. Thomas.”
“Now, what do I need to do to prepare for next year?” she asks.
Before I can answer, the bell on the front door clangs sharply against the glass.
“Hello?” comes a very familiar, deep voice.
I freeze.
Why is this man so persistent about talking to me?
“I’m just going to put you on a brief hold, Mrs. Thomas,” I say quietly. “I want to double-check one thing.”
“Oh, take your time, dear.”
I set the receiver down more slowly than necessary, trying to make my movements small and quiet. I stare at the computer screen without actually seeing it, columns of responsibility and expectation stacked neatly on top of each other, turning into a blur.
“Sadie?” Milo calls, his voice closer now.
I close my eyes for half a second and pinch the bridge of mynose. This is not somewhere I want Milo to see me—here in the office I didn’t want to call mine.
I pick the phone back up. “Mrs. Thomas? Thank you for holding.”
“Everything okay?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say automatically. “It’ll just take me an hour or so this afternoon—maybe two—to create a perfect plan so you don’t have to deal with a tax surprise next year.”
A shadow falls across the doorway of my office.
I don’t look up.
“Oh, that would be great, dear,” she replies. “Do you think you can print it out and bring it to me? I really hate trying to figure out how to print things off my email.”
I can feel Milo watching me, his eyes warm and steady.
“I’ll bring it by on my way home today,” I reply. “No problem at all.”
