The third column on the yellowed page of my father’s old leather ledger did not balance by twelve dollars and forty cents. Across the kitchen island, Ethan set his coffee cup down with a sharp click that made the silver spoons in the drawer rattle.
“We spent eighty-four dollars on organic fertilizer last Tuesday,” Ethan said, his voice smooth and low. He smoothed his silk tie, though it was only seven in the morning.
I adjusted my gold-rimmed reading glasses and kept my pencil hovered over the column. A cold draft seemed to pass through the kitchen, though the double-hung windows were locked tight against the October chill.
“The lawn needs the treatment before the first hard frost,” I said, keeping my tone flat and even.
“We need to trim the waste, Nora,” he said, leaning forward. “Every single dollar has to be accounted for this season.”
He pointed a finger at the page where I had noted a two dollar and fifty cent charge for a black coffee at the bakery.
“You do not need to buy coffee when we have a machine right here,” Ethan said.
I quietly closed the heavy leather book and slid it beneath a stack of tax circulars. The dark brown leather was worn at the corners where my father’s hands had touched it for thirty years, back when the family business was just a single flatbed truck and three shovels.
“I am just keeping track of the daily expenses,” I said, placing my palms flat on the wood.
“Let me handle the tracking,” Ethan said, standing up and checking his watch. “We have the bank appointment at two.”
He left the kitchen without another word, his leather soles echoing down the hallway.
I stood by the counter for a moment, listening to the hum of the refrigerator.
My father had given me the ledger when I passed my CPA exam twenty-eight years ago, telling me that every number carries its own truth if you look closely enough.
I locked the kitchen door before leaving the house, a habit I had started only three weeks prior.
