Page 49 of Show Me

She exhales, sitting back on her heels. “It didn’t feel right anymore.” I wait. She fills the silence. “Everything changing. Watching everything. Acting like I need permission to do my job. And if I stay, I keep dealing with that.” Her voice tightens. “I can’t keep doing that and still feel like I have any say in my own work.”

My teeth clench together. “And Brent?”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s no humor in it. “Still there. Still persistent.”

Not new information. Still doesn’t sit right. “You did the right thing.”

“Yeah?” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It’s clear she doesn’t have the same certainty that I do about quitting being the right decision. Not when it means losing work or walking away without knowing what comes next. “I need something lined up before I can let myself believe this is right.”

“Yeah.” No hesitation. Because it’s not just about being uncomfortable, it’s about access. Who’s watching. Who thinks they get to.

She nods, then looks back at the piglets. “I told him two weeks.”

“Good.”

Her head tilts. “You didn’t even ask what I’m going to do next.”

“I know what you’re going to do next.”

She huffs a breath. “Do you?”

“Yeah.” I stand, pulling my phone from my pocket.

She watches me. “What’re you doing?”

I hit dial. “Dad.” A pause. “I found someone for the office.”

“Okay.” There’s no mistaking the relief in his voice as it cuts through the line. “Are you sure she’s solid?”

I glance at her. She’s staring at me now. “Yeah. She’s solid. Already handles scheduling, client interaction. Organized. Doesn’t panic when things get busy.”

Not a stretch. Just facts. Another pause.

“How soon?”

“Two weeks. She’ll finish out where she is.”

“If you vouch for her, I’m on board. You know I’m tired of wrestling with that computer and the phone.”

“I’ll bring her by this week.” I hang up.

“You just… hired me.”

“I told you I would.”

She pushes to her feet, brushing straw off her jeans. “I didn’t think you were serious. I still need to figure out what I’m doing if this doesn’t work, because I can’t afford to assume.” Her words come fast, like she’s counting the risk as she speaks.

“I was.”

“That’s not how jobs usually work,” she says. “You don’t call someone, and that’s it. You have interview–”

“I do.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s not reassuring.”

I almost smile. “You run a busy front desk by yourself. Including scheduling, dealing with clients, handling problems without making them bigger.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it.