The Light of Hidden Flowers by Jennifer Handford

guy” status was good enough.
    “What else?” he asked. “Are you happy? Are you doing what you want to be doing?”
    “I’m good, Dad,” I said. “Really, I’m happy. I’m fine. What about you?”
    “Your old man is better than ever,” he said, granting me his trophy wink and a smile. “Are we ready for our day?”

    At ten o’clock, the Sherwoods came in. Dad had known Bob Sherwood for fifty years; they went to the same high school, played varsity football, worked at Dairy Queen in the summer. Both were deployed to Vietnam, and both came home with stories to tell and an urgency to marry their high school sweethearts. Bob married Laney, and Dad married Mom. Today, Dad and Bob reminisced, while Jenny brought in coffee. I attempted chitchat with Mrs. Sherwood, a stunningly assembled woman who put me to shame with her jewelry and makeup and matching shoes and purse.
    “Been on any trips?” she asked.
    “No, just around here,” I said, trying not to hold this against her. It wasn’t like she knew about my desire to travel and the paralysis that prevented me from it.
    Jenny poured coffee.
    “Best coffee ever!” Dad beamed, Jenny blushed, and the Sherwoods lifted their cups.
    “Are you seeing anyone, dear?” Mrs. Sherwood asked. Another common question for a longtime family friend to ask, but still—she was on a roll.
    “I am,” I said. “A very nice guy. A tax attorney.”
    She pulled her coral lipstick into a broad smile. “Do you still like working in your dad’s office?”
    Working in my dad’s office? I wanted to scream: Do you mean working with my dad as a partner and the firm’s principal financial analyst? The person who manages your $2.4 million? I’m not some summer intern, filing papers and answering the phones, thank you very much! I have more degrees and certifications than most in this business, I wanted to tell her. Though of course I didn’t. She was just a nice old lady asking nice-old-lady questions. And why wouldn’t she see me that way? As the mousy daughter of the charismatic Frank Fletcher. Why would she think more of me than met the eye? It was true, wasn’t it? Fact: I did still work with my father, after all of these years. Fact: I was still single, after all of these years. Fact: I hadn’t gone on any trips, after all of these years.
    Finally, Dad and Bob returned from memory lane and I cued up the projector, blasted their current portfolio onto the screen and felt compelled to deliver my part of the presentation with more technical acuity than I would usually employ. I used my red laser pointer to highlight their returns, and then, for show-off purposes, launched into a detailed explanation of the difference between “time-weighted returns” and the “internal rate of return.” I drew a complicated equation on the whiteboard with brackets and parentheses, to prove my point. When Dad jumped in with a simple, “So great, we’re making money!” I knew I had impressed no one.
    Dad took it from there. He talked about seeing the lawyer, his buddy Roger, to update the wills and trusts.
    “If we put money in the trusts,” Mrs. Sherwood said, “how will we get to it?”
    Dad carefully explained how putting money into a revocable trust meant nothing in terms of control. “It’s still your money, L—”
    Dad looked at me. Then Bob looked at Dad. Then I looked at Mrs. Sherwood—Laney. And I finally got it: Dad couldn’t remember her name. Laney! I wanted to shout at Dad.
    “That’s right, Dad,” I said. “With a revocable trust, Laney—Mrs. Sherwood—still has full access to the money. She only needs permission from the trustee. But in this case, she is the trustee, so she only needs permission from herself.”
    “You see, Laney,” Dad said, “it’s still your money, Laney.” Dad couldn’t stop saying Laney, as if, now that he had it again, he was desperate to cement the name in his memory. “Nothing to worry about, Laney.”

    After the meeting, I poked