Don’t Make Me Turn This Life Around by Pagán, Camille (top novels of all time txt) 📗

named for my mother and funded programs for children who’d lost a parent to cancer. Now we had eight full-time employees, including me. “You sleep here again last night?”

This was our routine: Rupi was always the first to arrive, and usually the last to leave, and I always said something about it. She laughed. “It’s going to be a busy day. But before we talk about work . . .” She motioned for me to come closer, even though Kareem was the only other person at his desk, which was all the way across the room. “How did your appointment go?” she whispered.

I smiled—at least Rupi hadn’t forgotten. Like me, her mother had died of cancer when Rupi was still young. It was part of the reason we’d grown close over the four years she’d been with the foundation. But even more than that, her unflappable cheer made her great company. In fact, she was probably exactly who I needed to be around right now.

“Great! I’m cancer free yet again—and in fact, next month marks a decade.”

“Oh my gosh! That’s amazing.” She jumped up and hugged me. Unlike Dr. Malone, Rupi didn’t try to squeeze the stuffing out of me. She had the kind of motherly hug that gave me the warm fuzzies. Except today I didn’t feel much of anything, which was almost as alarming as my nonresponse at the doctor’s office. “I had a feeling it was good, or I wouldn’t have asked,” she added.

“I love your optimism,” I said, but this time I had to remind myself to smile back.

“Takes one to know one. Hey, do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” I said, because I’d much rather chat with Rupi than read through the several dozen emails that had probably landed in my inbox since I’d checked it in bed that morning.

“Your office?” she said.

I tried not to look surprised. “Sure,” I said, motioning for her to follow me. She pulled the door closed behind her, which was doubly curious—we weren’t really a closed-door kind of operation. “You’re not leaving the foundation, are you?” I said.

I’d been joking, but when she responded by laughing nervously, I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have been. “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she said, her voice an octave higher than it had been a moment ago. “I just wanted to bring something up.”

“I’m listening.”

She sat in one of the two aging armchairs on the other side of my desk. “I’m wondering if you have any plans to evolve the foundation beyond . . .” She motioned to the rest of the office behind her. “What we’re currently doing.”

“Do you think that we’re not doing a good job?” I asked, working hard not to frown. “We gave away five million dollars last year and only directed eighteen percent of donations toward overhead. As you know, that’s half of what most nonprofits spend.”

“I know, and we’re all super proud of that.” Rupi was twisting her hands in her lap. “I just think CCRF would benefit from some new initiatives. Maybe even our own program.”

I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but this was not it, and I felt myself growing irrationally upset. Yes, I’d built this company out of nothing but an idea and the firm belief that I would find a way to make it happen. Yet I knew Rupi wanted it to succeed as much as I did, and she had every right to make suggestions about the future of the foundation. Even if said suggestions were as logical as trying to burn extra calories by leaving brownies in the oven too long.

“We fund programs, Rupi—we don’t run them,” I said, careful to keep my tone in check. “Creating and running a program would take resources we don’t have, and I don’t know how realistic it is to think we can shift from something that’s super successful to something completely unknown.”

Rupi sat up straight, and I had the distinct impression whatever she was about to say had been prepared in advance. “I think we do have some of those resources. As you know, I implemented several programs at Lighthouse,” she said, referring to her previous employer, which had been devoted to the needs of adults. “Kareem has a background in events—”

“And he does a wonderful job using that background to set up our donor banquets,” I pointed out. Same team, Libby, I reminded myself. “Respectfully, Rupi, we’re a child-focused organization, which Lighthouse isn’t.”

“Exactly!” she said, all big eyes and earnest nodding. “Which is why I think we should open a summer camp upstate for kids who’ve recently lost a parent. I mean, wouldn’t that just be incredible? You always say that good ideas start as a desire, right? And that when you add hard work into the mix, you can figure anything out?”

I guess I had said that, but now that I was hearing someone else repeat it, I wanted to reach back in time and slap myself for mistaking a motivational poster–worthy slogan for business acumen.

“And this one is just screaming my name!” she continued, oblivious to my internal debate. On the one hand, she was literally my most valuable employee, and I wanted to support her. On the other, I was ready to run out of the door and tell her to call me when she was back to being dependable, right-sized-idea-generating Rupi. “I still remember not being able to talk to anyone about my mom dying, and how isolating that was,” she said, her dark brown eyes brimming with tears.

“I know the feeling,” I admitted, because although I had Paul, he was all I’d had; for the longest time other kids had treated us like our mother’s death was something their parents could catch if they spent too much time around us.

But mostly I was thinking: A camp?

A camp involved buying or leasing land. Buildings. More staff, all of who would have to be trained in dealing with kids who were grieving. And loads and loads of cash.

“I love that you’re going