My mother-in-law called me at 10:14 on a Tuesday morning while I was reviewing budget reports in a glass conference room overlooking downtown Atlanta. I saw her name on my phone—Patricia Bell—and almost let it go to voicemail. Almost. But Patricia had been living in my guest room for four months “temporarily,” which in Patricia’s language meant until she had drained every favor, every dollar, and every ounce of peace from my house.
The moment I answered, she didn’t even say hello.
“Where’s your twenty-five-hundred-dollar Christmas bonus?” she snapped. “Why haven’t you sent it yet?”
For a second, I thought I had misheard her.
“My what?”
“Your bonus, Nicole. Don’t play dumb with me. Derek said your company gives management a holiday bonus every December. I already told my sister I’d be paying off my credit cards this week.”