A Silver Photo Frame on Our Porch Ended My Fifteen Year Blind Spot
“The board was unanimous,” he said. “We want you in Chicago by the twenty-eighth.”
I looked down at the desk, where my weekly planner lay open to the November calendar.
“I cannot accept the transfer, Harold,” I said.
The line went silent for three full seconds, the quiet so absolute I could hear the faint hum of the connection.
“Excuse me?” Harold said.
“I cannot move our family to Chicago, Harold, even if it means my path at this company ends here,” I said.
I spoke the words clearly, without the usual corporate qualifiers I had used for fifteen years.
“Jordan, let’s be professional here,” Harold said, his tone dropping into a hard, competitive register. “You requested this track.”
“My circumstances have changed,” I said.
“If you decline this move, the board will view it as a lack of commitment to our regional expansion,” Harold said.
“I understand the professional cost,” I said.
“You are looking at a fifteen-thousand-dollar annual bonus that is tied directly to the Chicago office’s performance,” he said.
“I am aware of the financial structure,” I said.
