PART 3 — THE SUITCASE
When Phil walked in from golf at two, sunburned and happy, I was sitting in his chair, and the document on top of the stack had my name on it, a brand-new title, and the words, Licensed Tax Preparer, State of California.
Phil stared at it. What is this, he said.
Every Tuesday night for three years, when he thought I was at Bible study, I had been going to classes. Bookkeeping, then accounting, then the state exam. The woman who thinks Excel is a vitamin had quietly been earning her license, and the letter in my purse that birthday morning said I had passed.
The best housekeeper Phil never had to pay had just become a licensed tax preparer, and she knew his plumbing business books better than he ever had.
I had kept those books for thirty-eight years. I knew every account, every invoice, every corner he cut. And now I had the title, and the knowledge, to stand on my own two feet for the first time since I was twenty-two.
The records I was printing were not to hurt Phil. They were mine to take, the proof of thirty-eight years of unpaid work, so that when the lawyers divided things up, no one could pretend I had only folded sheets.
I filed for divorce the following week. The court does not think much of a man who calls his wife free labor for thirty-eight years and keeps the business she ran in his name alone. I walked away with half of everything we built, and the means to earn my own living besides.
What would you do without me, Phil had asked, winking at his friends. I answered that question with a suitcase, a title, and a client list of my own.
Phil calls sometimes now, since his bookkeeper quit and he cannot make the numbers balance. I give him the name of a good tax preparer. It is not me. I am busy. I have my own clients now, and not one of them has ever called me the best housekeeper they never had to pay.
I did not make a wish when I blew out those candles. I did not need one. I had already made it come true, one Tuesday night at a time.