My knees objected to a crawlspace before I'd even opened the truck door, which is an impressive grasp of scheduling. Used the braces this time instead of saving them for the imaginary job where I'll need them more. Getting under the house was fine, getting back out required planning and a small amount of language. By the last account I could feel the difference between being tired and being cooked in attic heat, so I sat with water before driving. The customer kept apologizing for making me wait. Lady, the appointment was over. I was waiting for my own body to stop behaving like a hot appliance nobody should touch yet.

Mom let me carry her groceries without making the usual argument, and somehow that worried me more than if she'd fought me for every bag. She's spent my entire life doing things with sore knees and saying she's fine. I was glad to help, then irritated with her, then with myself for turning a quiet Friday into an inspection. We had coffee and she told me about a neighbour's ridiculous fence instead. I laughed properly, not the customer version. On the drive home I wanted to call again and ask how she really was, except I'd already asked three times. I settled for putting her next shopping trip in my calendar without announcing a rescue operation.

The second-truck spreadsheet looks excellent until I put an actual person's wages in it instead of the hopeful little number I had there before. I don't want an employee whose whole job is absorbing the accounts I dislike. They'd need training, good equipment and a schedule a human being could live on, apparently just like me. I've started marking which jobs really require my attention and which I'm keeping because I know every corner of the property. Eighty familiar accounts can make you feel indispensable when some of what you are is used to the route. I'm still interested in expanding. I'm less interested in doing it by pretending supervision takes no time.