minutes in, just when I was getting to the part where I knew I had found the right house for my son and me to start over in, Richard raised his hand to interject. “Do you have your tax returns?” he asked me, and I reached into my bag to wrestle out the stack of backup information I had compiled: five years of tax returns, bank statements, and check stubs from my shiny new freelance career. “This is possible . . .” he said, punching some numbers into his computer. “It won’t be traditional,
