If it was correct, anyone who understood the method could verify it.
I found comfort in that.
In high school, I took advanced mathematics and economics courses.
I joined a student business club.
And I helped Mrs. Lau organize her bakery's receipts after she complained that her bookkeeper's invoices were becoming too expensive.
I wasn't an accountant yet.
But I could create spreadsheets.
Compare costs.
Track payments.
And identify where expenses were increasing.
The first time I showed Mrs. Lau a report explaining why one supplier was charging significantly more than another, she stared at me.
Then she laughed.
"You made the numbers speak."
I smiled.
"Something like that."
She nodded approvingly.
"Good. Make sure they tell the truth."
When I applied to college, I was accepted to Berkeley with financial aid.
My mother cried.
Mrs. Lau made enough pineapple buns to feed our entire building.
My brother Elijah told everyone at school that his sister was going to become rich.
I laughed at him.
"That's not how college works."
He shrugged.
"Maybe for you."
At Berkeley, I studied accounting and business regulation, while taking additional coursework in Chinese language and East Asian studies.
I spent time with students from Hong Kong.
Joined conversation groups.
Studied formal written Chinese.
And later participated in a summer academic program in Hong Kong, where my language skills improved more in a few months than they had during several years of classroom exercises.
I learned that speaking Cantonese comfortably in a bakery wasn't the same as interpreting a financial discussion.
Business language was technical.
Words carried contractual consequences.
An ordinary phrase could become dangerously ambiguous in a formal document.
I had to study carefully.
But I loved the challenge.
Accounting and language began to connect in my mind.
Both required attention to what people actually meant.
Both depended on accuracy.
And both could reveal problems when different versions of the same information failed to match.
I graduated with honors.
For a while, I believed the hardest years were behind me.
I was wrong.
My first professional job was at a financial services firm in San Francisco.
It wasn't glamorous.
I reviewed internal controls.
Prepared reconciliation schedules.
Checked documentation.
And helped senior compliance analysts examine transactions involving clients with business interests in different countries.
The work required patience.
Lots of it.
Sometimes I spent an entire afternoon comparing forms that appeared almost identical.
Other days involved reviewing payment records, identifying missing authorizations, or preparing questions for more experienced colleagues.
I learned quickly.
My supervisors liked my attention to detail.
And when the firm began working with clients who needed Cantonese-language support, my skills became useful.
I wasn't a lawyer.
I wasn't authorized to provide legal opinions.
And I wasn't a certified interpreter for every specialized context.
But I could help identify translation differences, review bilingual financial schedules, and flag matters requiring qualified legal or language professionals.
I respected those boundaries.
My mother had spent years reminding me that being good at something didn't mean pretending to know everything.
So I asked questions.
Documented uncertainties.