Page 5 of Daddy Knows Best

The cash felt foreign between my fingers. When was the last time I'd actually touched money? Everything had been tap-to-pay for so long that these bills might as well have been Monopoly money. Except Monopoly money didn't make my stomach clench with the specific anxiety of scarcity.

"This is good for us," I told Sir Reginald, my gorgeous ginger tabby, who responded by licking his left paw with aristocratic indifference. "Structure. Accountability. All those things functional adults have."

I tucked the envelope into my purse's inner pocket—not the easily accessible front section where my dead credit cards lived, but deep inside where I'd have to dig for it. Deliberate barriers, the information that Dr. Whitlow gave me said. Make spending harder than not spending.

The mini notebook that he’d also insisted on nestled beside the envelope. Pocket-sized, with a pen attached by elastic loop. "Real-time tracking," it was called. I was to log every purchase, the moment it happens.

No exceptions.

My phone buzzed with the morning alarm. Time to test this new system in the real world.

North Point PR occupied the third floor of a converted bank building, all exposed brick and industrial windows. My cubicle sat in the middle of the open floor plan, close enough to smell whatever anyone microwaved but far enough from the windows to forget sunlight existed.

"Morning, Em!" Jade from accounts receivable waved from the coffee station. "Starbucks run in twenty if you want in."

The old Emily would have rattled off a complicated order involving three pumps of this and extra foam that. New Emily—Week One Emily—had a thermos of home-brewed coffee warming in her bag.

"I'm good, thanks." The words felt like speaking a foreign language.

I powered up my ancient Dell, watching the loading screen inch along while the office filled with the usual Monday morning sounds. Keyboards clacking, the printer already jamming, someone definitely watching TikToks without headphones.

The morning blurred into client emails and social media scheduling.

My coffee ran out by ten-thirty, which is when the vending machine in the break room started its siren call.

It hummed with that particular frequency that bypassed rational thought and went straight to the part of my brain that equated caffeine with survival.

I stood in front of it, dollar bills limp in my hand. The machine's LED display cheerfully informed me that a bottle of cold brew cost $3.25. Highway robbery, but less than Starbucks. The old Emily would have swiped her card without thinking, maybe grabbed a bag of chips too because why not?

But New Emily had a notebook. A notebook designed to make me feel guilty.

I pulled it out, uncapped the pen with my teeth, and wrote in careful letters: Monday, 10:47 AM - Coffee, $3.25 - Approved. The "approved" part felt silly, like I was my own financial manager, but Dr. Whitlow had been specific. Every purchase needed acknowledgment that it fit within the budget.

A bill disappeared into the machine with mechanical efficiency. I tucked the change—one dollar, seventy-five cents—back into the envelope and made a note of the remaining balance: $71.75.

Such a simple transaction. Buy coffee, get coffee, record coffee. But something about writing it down, seeing the numbers change in real time, made the whole thing feel weirdly . . . substantial. Like the purchase actually mattered.

"You keeping a diary now?" Marcus from design peered over my shoulder as I capped the pen.

"Expense tracking." I shoved the notebook back in my pocket. "Trying to be more mindful about spending."

"Good for you." He clinked his Red Bull against my coffee in mock cheers. "I should probably do that too. Pretty sure I spend half my salary on energy drinks and shame."

I related to the shame part.

Lunch arrived with its own test. The group text lit up with the daily debate—Thai or Mexican for delivery?

Someone suggested the new poke place that charged eighteen dollars for deconstructed sushi.

My container of meal-prepped quinoa and roasted vegetables waited in the break room fridge like a sad, responsible friend.

I ate at my desk, earbuds in, pretending to be too busy for social lunch. The quinoa tasted fine—I'd even remembered to add lemon this time—but I could smell pad thai from three cubicles over. My notebook stayed closed. Zero dollars spent.

Victory tasted suspiciously like under-seasoned bell peppers.

"You're being weird," Jade informed me during the afternoon slump. "Weirder than usual, I mean."

"Thanks for the pep talk." I kept my eyes on the screen, cropping images for tomorrow's Instagram posts.

"I'm serious. You turned down Starbucks, ate sad desk salad, and I swear I saw you writing in an actual paper notebook. Did you join a cult?"

"It's quinoa, not salad. Very different. And no cult. Just trying to get my shit together."

She studied me with the intensity of someone who'd known me since orientation three years ago. "How’s it going?"

"Ask me in a week."

The afternoon crawled by in its usual fashion—one crisis (the client who needed a complete rebrand by tomorrow), two near-misses (typos caught before posting), and seven cups of water because hydration was free.

By five-thirty, most of the office had emptied out, leaving just me and the cleaning crew.

I gathered my things, the envelope now holding $71.75 plus a receipt for the world's most documented coffee purchase. The bus ride home required exact change—$2.50 pulled from the envelope, noted in the notebook with time and purpose. Balance: $69.25.

My apartment welcomed me with its usual eau de litter box and whatever my downstairs neighbor was cooking (curry, maybe?).

Sir Reginald performed his dinner dance, winding between my legs with increasing urgency until I filled his bowl with the good stuff—the grain-free salmon that cost more per ounce than my own food.

Lucky I had months worth of that stuff saved up.

Before I could collapse into my usual evening routine of Netflix and cereal, I had one more task. Dr. Whitlow's instructions echoed as I spread the day's receipts on my kitchen table. Two pathetic pieces of paper—vending machine coffee and bus fare. But they were mine, accounted for, controlled.

I snapped photos with my phone, making sure the amounts were clear. The Google Drive folder—Nate Receipts - Week 1—opened with embarrassing eagerness. I'd created it immediately after leaving his office, like a teacher's pet setting up extra credit before the first assignment.

Upload. Process. Complete.

The green checkmark appeared next to each file, and something loosened in my chest. Such a small thing, but it felt like proof of something. That I could follow instructions. That I could change. That maybe, possibly, I wasn't doomed to financial disaster forever.

I did a little spin in my kitchen, arms out, narrowly missing Sir Reginald's water bowl. He glared from his spot on the windowsill, clearly unimpressed by my celebration of basic adulting.

"I’m acing it so far!"

He yawned.

"You're right. Day one doesn't mean anything. But it's something."

I changed into my softest pajamas—the ones with coffee cups on them—and settled onto the couch with my laptop.

The usual temptations paraded across my screen.

Sale alerts from every store I'd ever given my email to.

Instagram ads for things I didn't know I needed until the algorithm decided I did.

A sponsored post about planners that would definitely fix my life for just $39. 99 plus shipping.

I closed the laptop.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I went to bed without the weight of new debt on my chest. No credit card shame spiral. No mental math trying to figure out how to pay minimums. Just the simple satisfaction of living within my means for one single day.

Sir Reginald curled against my feet, purring his approval or possibly just appreciating the warmth. Either way, I'd take it.

"Six more days," I whispered into the darkness.

T he email detonated at 2:47 PM on a Tuesday that had, until that moment, been boringly successful.

"Where the FUCK is our campaign?"

No greeting. Just six words that made my monitor swim and my carefully maintained balance feel like a joke.

Harrison Kline of Kline Automotive didn't do pleasantries on a good day. On a bad day—which this apparently was—he did career destruction.

I scrolled down, hands already shaking. The campaign he was screaming about? The one I'd scheduled last Friday, checked twice, confirmed with screenshots?

Nowhere.

Not delayed. Not misfired. Just . . . gone. Like it had never existed.

"Emily?" My manager Deb materialized beside my desk with that expression that meant someone important was upset. "Harrison Kline is on line one. He sounds—"

"Apocalyptic?"

"I was going to say 'concerned,' but sure, apocalyptic works."

Forty-five minutes later, I stumbled out of the conference room with my ears ringing and my professional confidence in tatters.

Turned out the scheduling platform had glitched.

Not my fault, technically. But try explaining "technically" to a client who'd just lost a full day of promotion for his President's Day sale.

"Take a walk," Deb suggested, which was manager-speak for "disappear before you cry in front of the interns."

I grabbed my purse, that responsible envelope tucked inside like a security blanket, and fled.

North Point's Riverwalk stretched out before me, all February sunshine and couples sharing coffee.

I walked without direction, just moving to outrun the sound of Harrison's voice questioning my competence, my intelligence, my right to exist in the marketing space.

My phone buzzed with follow-up emails I couldn't face.