Ping.
Outlook inbox. Subject line:
URGENT: Need You to Complete the Quarterly Client Summary.Sender: Dave Thornton
Urgh.The Human Clog In My Life Arteries.
I stare at it.
Then I click the refresh button like it’s a magic eraser. Once. Twice. A third time, just for spite.
Nope. Still there. Like herpes.
My jaw tightens. A slow exhale pushes through my nose as I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling tiles as if they might have answers. One’s stained. Looks like a coffee splash or maybe a roach massacre. Fitting, either way.
Fine. Deep breath. Keep it together, Mary. Don’t scream. Don’t cry. Don’t throw your monitor through the nearest window.
Fighting the twitch in my right eye, I click the email, hoping—praying—it’s a mistake.
It’s not.
Hey, Mary,
Can you finish populating the Q2 Summary spreadsheet for me tonight? Janice had to leave early (again), and I’ve got a dinner thing. It’s mostly copy-paste from the client ledger to the reporting template. Real simple stuff. You’re great at this.
Appreciate it, Dave
Sent from my iPhone(while probably drinking a martini and patting himself on the back for delegating.)
Attached:Quarterly_Client_Summary_2025_Q2.xlsxAnd another attachment:Master_Client_Transactions_FY25.xlsx
My right eye twitches more.
It’shisjob.HisandJanice’sjob.
You know, Janice—the secretary who suddenly started wearing stronger perfume and always leaves with him right at five on the dot like they’re clocking out of a sitcom. The one whose lipstick mysteriously smudges exactly where his collarbone would be.
But hey, none of that is my business. I don’t care what corporate soap opera they’ve got playing out in the shadows.
What I do care about? This is the fourth time in two weeks. And I’ve been here forseven years.
Seven years of smiling through chipped mugs and toner explosions. Seven years of working Saturdays while Janice “recovered” from her latest eyelash lift. Seven years of being the person who knows where everything is—because I put it there. Seven years of 2% raises and zero promotions while girls like Stephanie breeze in, blink twice, and get handed a manager title because they know how to say “synergy” without gagging.
And now I’m doing this. Data entry for a report I wasn’t hired to touch.
The spreadsheet opens like a punishment. Tab after tab of client names, account types, year-to-date spending, flagged anomalies.I’m supposed to match them to the summary breakdown, checking totals against the template so Dave can forward it to corporate and pretend he actually lifted a finger.
I exhale and crack my knuckles. My neck already hurts.
God, I was supposed to be at Grandma’s by now.
I shoot her a quick text.
Me: Work emergency. I’m sorry, Grandma. I’ll come first thing tomorrow. Don’t get up too much tonight, okay?
Also me, mentally:Please don’t think I forgot you.
My fingers hover over the keys for a second too long.
