You’re forty-two years old, Eliza, and you still answer phones for a living. That’s

I waited until Brittany finished her monologue. Then I asked her, very gently, how her firm’s merger with Halston Group was going. She blinked. Her husband Greg froze mid-chew. “How do you know about that?” she said. I told her I’d reviewed the term sheet three weeks ago. Greg’s fork hit the plate. See, the “phones” I answer belong to Carrington Whitfield, a private acquisitions advisor. I’m not his receptionist. I’m his lead analyst. I built the valuation model that Brittany’s husband’s firm had been begging us to greenlight for six months. I just never corrected anyone, because when I tried to explain my job at Christmas in 2017, Brittany interrupted me to talk about her new kitchen island. So I stopped trying. Greg started sweating. He whispered, “Babe, she’s the E. Mercer on the cover memo.” Brittany’s wine glass tilted in her hand. I pulled out my phone, calm as Sunday morning, and showed her the email thread where her husband had personally addressed me as “Ms. Mercer” and asked, three times, for an expedited review. “Greg, sweetheart,” I said, “you’ve been calling me ma’am in writing since August.” The table was silent. My mother-in-law set down her napkin and said, “Brittany. Apologize to your sister-in-law.” Brittany couldn’t speak. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. I stood up, smoothed my navy cardigan, and walked to the kitchen to get the pie. My husband followed me. He kissed my forehead and whispered, “You didn’t have to be that kind.” I smiled. “I wasn’t being kind,” I said. “I was being patient. There’s a difference.” On Monday morning, I declined the merger recommendation. Not out of spite. The numbers genuinely didn’t work. But I did email Greg personally to tell him. I signed it, “Warm regards, Eliza Mercer, the lady who answers phones.”