“What’s this for?” I ask with a grin, holding up the leather binder. “Your work, that thing you use, is tearing at the seams and it’s so unorganized. See, this one has tabs for each week—or subject, you can decide.” She smiles. This gift is humorous because I always take note of the way she cringes when I shove papers into my old binder. I refuse to let her organize it for me despite her multiple attempts, and I know that drives her insane. I don’t want her to see what’s inside.
Why not, Hardin? WHY NOT??
