the lamp above my desk and opened the order books.
The room still smelled faintly of freshly pressed fabric.
Outside, shops were beginning to open.
Metal shutters rattled.
Someone swept the sidewalk.
I knew that if I wanted to keep the workshop, I needed more than emotion.
I needed numbers.
So I separated everything.
Income.
Fabric costs.
Wages.
Machine maintenance.
Utilities.
What I took home.
Outstanding orders.
Customer deposits.
And then I discovered something uncomfortable.
The workshop was profitable.
But not nearly as profitable as I had convinced myself it
