Susan Miller stood before the vast panoramic window of her seventeenth-floor office, watching the first city lights flicker on in the deepening twilight. The city was slowly sinking into Friday evening, anticipating a weekend of rest, friendly gatherings, and family dinners.
But for Susan, this evening was just another step in the endless marathon called “Get It All Done.” Her hands ached slightly from hours at the computer, and her eyes felt gritty with strain. The quarterly report she’d submitted today had been a real monster—hundreds of pages, thousands of figures, cross-checks, and profitability analyses for several properties.
But she’d done it. Flawlessly, as always. And now, she was due not only a well-earned rest but also a promised bonus—a substantial sum, nearly equal to her monthly salary.
The phone on her desk vibrated for the fifth time in the last hour. The screen lit up again: “Mike, my love.” Susan sighed and rubbed her face.
“My love.” The words once brought warmth to her soul, but now they only sparked a dull irritation mixed with guilt. She knew why he was calling. Today was his mother Eleanor’s birthday. Sixty. A serious milestone, demanding a proper celebration and, more importantly, a proper gift.
“Yes, Mike, I’m here,” she answered, trying to keep her voice calm.
“Susan, where are you?” his familiar, petulant baritone came through the line. “We agreed you’d be here by six. Mom’s got all the guests here, the table’s set, and you’re a no-show. What am I supposed to tell her?”
“I’m wrapping up. Mike, I just have to print the last section of the report and get it signed by my boss. I told you today was the deadline.”
“Always your job!” A hint of resentment crept into his voice. “Your work always comes first. Mom only turns sixty once. She’s waiting, getting anxious.”
Susan closed her eyes. She could picture it perfectly: Eleanor, in her best maroon dress, sitting at the head of the table in their small two-bedroom condo, dramatically pressing a hand to her heart and casting suffering glances at her son. “Oh, where could our dear Susan be? Probably counting her pennies again. She’s completely neglecting my boy, completely.”
“I haven’t forgotten the party,” she said aloud. “I’ll be there soon. I’ll pick up the gift we talked about on my way.”
“Listen,” Mike’s tone shifted abruptly to business. “About the gift. I was thinking, that set of china we looked at—it’s a little boring. Mom deserves better. I saw these stunning garnet earrings at the jeweler’s, a perfect match for her dress. They’d look amazing on her.”
Susan remained silent, staring at her calculator. Garnet earrings. She knew the store and had a good idea of their prices.
“Mike, we agreed on a budget of two hundred dollars,” she said slowly. “The earrings you’re talking about cost at least seven hundred. We don’t have that kind of money.”
“What do you mean, we don’t?” he asked with genuine surprise. “What about your bonus? You said you were getting a big one today. Well, let’s spend it on Mom. She’ll be thrilled.”
Susan felt a tight, cold knot form in her stomach. Her bonus—money she’d earned through sleepless nights and frayed nerves, money she’d already mentally allocated down to the last cent. Part of it was for an extra payment on the mortgage they’d been carrying for five years, a mortgage she was essentially paying off by herself. Another part was for medical tests for her own mother, Carol, who had been complaining more and more about her heart. And a small fraction was for new winter boots, because her old ones were falling apart.
“Mike, that bonus is not for your mother’s gift,” she replied, struggling to maintain her composure. “We have other, more important expenses.”
“What could be more important than my mother’s sixtieth birthday?” he demanded. “Susan, don’t be selfish. Mom has done so much for us! If it weren’t for her, we’d still be bouncing between rental apartments.”
He was referring to the ten thousand dollars Eleanor had given them seven years ago for their down payment. Susan heard about this “royal gift” almost weekly. The fact that they had taken out a mortgage for the remaining three hundred thousand, and that she, Susan, had been making the monthly payments from her salary all these years while Mike was in a perpetual state of “creative discovery,” was conveniently never mentioned.
“We’re buying the china, as we agreed,” she said firmly. “There’s no money for earrings. That’s final. I have to go. Expect me in an hour or so.”
She ended the call before he could reply. Her heart was pounding. Every conversation like this threw her off balance, leaving a bitter taste of injustice. She loved Mike. At least, she used to. He was talented, charming, an open book. That’s how he’d been when they met ten years ago at an art workshop. She, an economics student, had gone with a friend, while he, a budding photographer and artist, had captivated her at first sight.
Their romance was a whirlwind. Late-night walks along the riverfront, poems he wrote for her, his black-and-white photos that made her look mysterious and beautiful. But after the wedding, the romance quickly gave way to reality. Mike’s creative search dragged on for years. He took on odd jobs here and there but spent most of his time at home, painting pictures nobody bought or pontificating about high art.
And Susan worked. First as an assistant accountant, then an accountant, and now a controller. She carried the family, the mortgage, paid for his art supplies, and silently endured her mother-in-law’s reproaches that she wasn’t doing enough to inspire her husband to greatness.
She gathered her documents into her briefcase, shut down her computer, and walked to her boss’s office. Mr. Peterson, a man in his fifties, was getting ready to leave.
“Working late, Susan?” he smiled. “Is the report finished?…”
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