Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She glanced at the screen, then at me, then back again. The color drained from her face.Sir…” she said quietly, almost unsure of her own voice. “I’m going to need my manager.”
I sat there, holding my grandfather’s old passbook tightly in my hands—the same one my father had mocked and ripped away from me on my wedding day five years earlier. The same worn booklet everyone had laughed at.The same one I had hidden in my drawer all this time because I couldn’t bring myself to throw away the last thing my grandfather ever gave me. “Is something wrong?” I asked. She shook her head quickly.
“No, sir… nothing is wrong. I just need my manager. Please wait.”
