“All the unnecessary spending.”
His tone was patient in the particularly irritating way people become patient when they believe they are explaining something obvious to someone less intelligent.
“Starting now, half of your paycheck goes to Megan. She has newborns.”
I said nothing.
Daniel continued.
“You earn much more than you need, Esme. Megan and Kyle are struggling. Mom and Dad can only help so much. I already told Megan we’d step up.”
That caught my attention.
“You already told her?”
“Yes.”
“That half of my salary would be transferred to her?”
He suddenly became very interested in the calculator.
“Well… I didn’t use the exact word half.”
“But something close to it?”
“Yes.”
I pulled out a chair.
“Daniel, that is several thousand dollars every month.”
“I know.”
“For how long?”
He shrugged.
“Until they get stable.”
“And when exactly will that be?”
“They just had babies, Esme.”
“Babies tend to remain expensive for quite some time.”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
Strangely, I wasn’t furious.
Not yet.
Instead, the auditor in me became fascinated.
The arrogance of his proposal was almost impressive.
He had apparently spent one afternoon pressing buttons on a calculator and decided he could redistribute my income without consulting me.
Then he pushed the pay stub toward me.
“You can afford it. We’ll just cut back.”
“We?”
“Yes.”
I leaned forward.
“What exactly are you cutting?”
Daniel frowned as though I had introduced an unreasonable complication.
“Why are you making this about me?”
And that was the moment the answer came to me.
Normally, I would have explained every financial detail.
Mortgage.
Taxes.
Insurance.
Retirement contributions.
Savings goals.
Household services.
I audit multimillion-dollar businesses for a living.
I could have reduced Daniel’s argument to mathematical rubble before dinner.
But then I understood something far more useful.
Daniel had absolutely no idea how much of his comfortable life was funded by the income he had just volunteered to someone else.
He didn’t think about the cleaner who came twice a month.
The lawn service.
Premium groceries delivered to the house.
His dry-cleaning pickup.
The expensive coffee beans he ground every morning.
The multiple streaming subscriptions.
The wine membership.
The upscale gym he enjoyed mentioning but rarely visited.
The upgraded internet package he had insisted upon.
And, perhaps most importantly, the Sunday lunches with his mother.
Daniel’s mother, Patricia, had developed expensive culinary expectations after I joined the family.
Before me, there were photographs proving she once served supermarket potato salad directly from the plastic container.
Then she learned what I did professionally.
Suddenly, Patricia became a self-appointed food expert.
Ordinary olive oil was “uninspired.”
Restaurant soup sometimes lacked “a point of view.”
She pronounced Italian food names with an accent that changed depending on the week.
Every Sunday, Patricia and her husband Frank came to our house expecting something spectacular.
Because of my restaurant connections, I could buy specialty ingredients at favorable prices.
Imported cheese.
Excellent seafood.
Fresh pasta.
Premium beef.
Unusual produce.
Daniel loved those lunches.
