Not because it was huge. It wasn’t. Not at first. I joined a midsize accounting firm in Stamford that specialized in compliance, restructuring, and sustainability finance, which sounds dry until you realize every serious financial story is really a human story wearing a tie. The hours were demanding, the commute was annoying, and pumping between client calls was a particular modern insult I still haven’t forgiven the universe for.
But the money hit my own account.
The account with my name on it.
That mattered.
I returned to work four months after the hearing. By then, my apartment had settled into itself. Nora’s crib sat under the east window, and every morning the sun crawled across the floorboards in gold bands she would later chase on unsteady toddler legs. My coffee maker sputtered like an old man clearing his throat. The downstairs neighbor played Sinatra on Sundays while cooking red sauce. Real life had small noises. It comforted me.
At work, I felt rusty for about three days.