001: When I Almost Called Bob
Don't move from feeling. Move from knowing.
This is the first story in the five-part series, White Collar, Black Ink. You can find the full, updated series list at the end of this piece.
When I opened the envelope and saw what was inside at my desk, I almost picked up the phone.
I almost called Bob.
I felt that jolt.
That how dare he heat in my chest.
That tight-throated pressure to fix it fast.
His name was on the insurance policy for my building.
Bob.
Just "Bob." Like we were old friends. Like this was a favor.
Buried in a clause.
Positioned for payout.
Waiting for something to go wrong.
I stood in my home office, still holding the torn envelope. My daughter in her baby swing, resting. Our dogs on the floor next to her as if guarding us. My hand clenched around the paper so tight it crumpled. My chest felt like thunder.
The dogs lifted their heads. Alert. Waiting for my next move.
I felt angry.
I felt intimidated.
I felt like I needed to do something.
But beneath the hot rush of feeling, there was a different current.
A quiet, solid space deep in my gut.
It didn’t have the frantic energy of anger.
It was still.
And it whispered: Wait.
Don’t move from feeling.
Move from knowing.
I had let so many of those policy envelopes collect dust.
Filed for later.
Never read.
When’s the last time you sat down to read your insurance policy like a book?
Exactly.
But this time was different.
This time the fine print had a name.
His name.
And once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it.
I never got the chance to meet Bob in person. He was the president of the company. I imagined we'd shake hands and he'd express his pride in selecting my startup project as one of the largest small business loans he'd awarded that year.
But he was always too busy.
Messages delivered between us through his employees. The only image I had of him was a headshot on his company website. Gray hair, suit, thick eyeglasses that made him look like he couldn't stop squinting. For the most part, he looked like a nice guy who probably coached little league. But his eyeglasses covered his face like a windshield and it was hard to see his eyes.
Holding that policy, I stood in my feelings. Trying to make sense of the situation because the truth of the matter was, Bob was no longer my lender. He shouldn’t have been listed anymore.
That was what made it feel... off.
Not illegal.
Just intentional.
If I had called him that day, he would’ve spun it smooth.
Told me it was standard practice.
It was a script I’d heard before—from other Bobs, in other rooms.
My intuition didn't just tell me what not to do.
It showed me what to do instead.
I didn’t need closure.
I needed leverage.
Don't react.
Document.
Don't argue.
Inquire.
Make them put the lie in writing.
I sat down at my desk, my hands no longer shaking.
I opened my laptop.
The email I wrote was three simple sentences.
It was polite.
It was professional.
And it was the opening move in a chess match they didn't know we were playing.
I hit send.
The policy on my desk.
Me, still squinting at Bob's name.
This was not a mistake.
It was a method.
A business practice.
A tell, teaching me: here are the corners most miss.
Here are the edges of business that blindside the innocent when it's too late.
Where do they turn when they can't get past the emotion, the anger?
Who helps them when the ones put in power to protect are the ones on the edges, ready to do the most harm?
I released a long, steady breath.
And in that quiet space, one final thought landed with chilling clarity:
There was something more here.
Something I wasn't supposed to know.
Something he was sure I’d never catch.
Until I did.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dilia Wood is the original founder and lead architect behind Inspirador, the award-winning event venue and historic redevelopment project at 63 East Boston Street in downtown Chandler, Arizona—now operating under new ownership as SoHo63.
Through her series White Collar, Black Ink, she documents the untold story behind the building she designed, the business she built, and the battle to be written back into the record.
Her broader platform, No Cubicle No Cry, is a digital mentorship space for women reclaiming authorship over their work, their worth, and their legacy.
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Image Credit: Special thanks to Quino Al on Unsplash for the photo of the rotary phone.
That is a great story. It actually reminds me of when my mom passed, her "Bob" was my father. She warned me about what he would do to what is owed to me, but I was in such shock and grief when she succumbed to her cancer, that my "inheritance" was the last thing on my mind. My narcissistic father did exactly what she said he would do, and one of the last moves I made, was to permanently leave, without what she gave me, and go no contact. And I have ignored every manipulation tactic since I left. It's been freeing but still sad, because I think about what he took away from my mother and I, all because he was selfish.