Sometimes I catch myself rehearsing conversations with my father that happened fifteen years ago, rewriting his lines so they don't sound quite so much like dismissal wrapped in a spreadsheet. It's absurd, really — Harry hasn't asked for my quarterly projections since I left the accounting track, and yet here I am, still balancing imaginary ledgers in my head at 2am. The doubt isn't whether I made the right choice; it's whether I'll ever stop waiting for him to notice.