Don’t tell my clients, but I have favorites.

Scott, age 70, with his Southern-wilted voice and firebrand progressive opinions (a welcome rarity in our book of business), is one of them.

He calls me dear, and oh how I love it. I know—I’m supposed to bristle at terms of endearment from older men, but I don’t.

I call Scott today and he answers dryly:

“Hi, dear. Whaddya want?”

I’m already amused.

“Where are you?” I ask, nosily, because there’s so much background noise.

“I’m at the hairdresser, why? You writing a book? What chapter are you on?”

There. There it is. That’s my dad. And I realize why I have affection for this man.

Scott was the first client who made me feel like I was really good at my job. While I check off all the professional boxes of a fiduciary in finance, the less discussed part of what I do is being a family therapist.

Scott told me things he’d never said out loud to anyone. About his mental health, his worries for his personal legacy, and in the middle of one particularly vulnerable call, he said: “You make this too easy. You sure you’re in the right job?”

Two days later, he transferred in more assets.

The thing I love most about Scott? He’s so refreshingly real. His cards are on the table—but not in a “please stop oversharing” way. He’s unintentionally curated. Soft and funny, self-aware and bleak, loving and desperate to be sure his grandkids are taken care of.

I have favorites. But I try to give them all as much heart as I give Scott.

_{^{(Daily Writing 047)}}