Depending on the season, the office on a Monday morning smells like roses, lilies, or peonies.

Because it’s May, the month of my birthday, it smells like lilacs.

Like I need the reminder.

The flower delivery always arrives just as I’ve disarmed the security system. The delivery girl, Katie, brushes by me quickly and places the first arrangement—​­lush lilacs and seeded ­eucalyptus—​­on the marble entryway table. “Morning, Cass!” she says on her way out to fetch the rest, her Land Cruiser parked along the curb.

“Morning,” I call out as I walk through our waiting ­room—​­a large space filled with floral-​­patterned sofas and chairs, ­high-​­piled cream rugs, and oak tables. Sunshine streams through a row of windows looking out into a courtyard set up with white iron benches and giant potted ficus. A black walnut tree shades it all, its skinny leaves shedding onto the dark-green cushions of the benches. The morning light is soft, and I take a moment to appreciate it before the day gets away from me. I close my eyes against the sunshine, willing myself into the present moment. Not the coming birthday.

When the last of the flowers are placed on the front desk, Katie leaves and our office manager, Shreya, arrives. “Please let me take over,” she says to me, brusquely, at the espresso machine where I’m starting to make myself a cappuccino. Shreya is young but bossy, because she is the eldest daughter to Indian immigrants, or so she tells us in all the memes she posts. She nudges me out of the way as she sets out delicate cups and saucers on the counter.

I let her, because her drinks are so much better than mine, and lean against the counter. “How was your weekend?”

“Good,” she says, keeping her eyes fixed on the milk frother. “Oh, I got an update from the private investigator. About . . .” She glances around before whispering, “Daniel.”