The morning cookie arrives precisely at eight, as it has for three years running , a small tax on the new day that I collect without fail.

Dad sits at his desk surrounded by papers that smell of ink and frustration. The calculator makes its small mechanical sounds. Outside, the rain has paused but the air still carries the weight of it, mixing with ponderosa and something sharper, the scent of deadlines approaching.

I position myself at the optimal distance: close enough to remind him of my presence, far enough to avoid the rustle of documents. There is an art to this. Too near and he shifts his chair. Too far and the morning cookie becomes theoretical rather than actual.

The kibble mathematics never change. Two cups, measured precisely, though my calculations suggest different figures entirely. But this other math – the papers, the muttering, the way his shoulders carry the weight of numbers that refuse to behave – this is human arithmetic, incomprehensible and somehow more complicated than the simple equation of hunger plus time equals breakfast.

The rain begins again, gentle against the windows. I close my eyes and let the sound mix with the scratch of his pen, the distant hum of the heater. These are the taxes I understand: warmth earned, presence exchanged for proximity, the reliable weight of routine settling around us both.

#pawscarwilde #taxseason