The tax return saga hurtles on. 

Working with Willie, I was finally — gloriously, spectacularly — able to access her online IRS account. 

And discovered Willie was, um, right. 

Wow. That was painful to say. 

She had — as she told me repeatedly — filed a tax return in 2018. 

I was thrilled. Not as thrilled as I was to score Shyamaween tickets or stay at the haunted hotel. But still. Pretty happy. 

Don’t worry. I stayed away from the Social Security office.  

The best part was I had all the tax documents I needed to start on the 2019 tax return. 

This was important, for reasons I had been completely unaware of but that the accountant explained. 

First, you can’t simply file your back taxes all at once. 

In case, you know, you were planning on not filing tax returns for a few years. 

The tax return that’s most delinquent gets filed first. Then the subsequent years are built from there. Like a tiered cake or a snowman. 

Also, after three years of delinquency, tax returns can’t get filed electronically.  

Listen. If you’re going to skip out on your taxes like it’s the 1920s and you’re Al Capone, they’re going to treat you like it’s the 1920s and make you file paper returns. 

So if you’re considering tax evasion, know what a headache you’re creating for yourself. 

And for me, because I’ll wind up fixing it. 

When the accountant and I met on a blustery December day —

Wait. Yes. I started this in April. I’m still working on Willie’s taxes now, in January. And the accountant told me she could do nothing with Willie’s taxes until after the 2024 tax season. 

And given that we have to file each year consecutively, I probably will not complete Willie’s 2023 tax return until 2025. 

Remember how cute and jubilant I was when, after two and a half years, I finally sold the Maryland property? 

Yeah. By the time this is over, I’ll have spent just as much time on Willie’s taxes as I did on the Maryland property. 

Not that I don’t like the accountant, but I wish my Maryland realtor could work with me on the taxes.  

He had a southern drawl like Park Overall in Biloxi Blues and said things like, “They try to ram you on that price?” and “Somebody took a dang ATV or something I don’t know what to your property!” 

Miss that guy. I do a great impersonation of him.  

Sometimes, I wish this website had an audio feature. 

That’s it. My two wishes in life. An audio button and my accountant to talk like my realtor. 

I’m a simple girl. 

Anyway. It was December. I was at the accountant’s office. 

She asked me to show her what documents I had for the years after 2019.  

And noted I was missing tax documents from Indy and Willie’s retirement accounts. 

Which meant I’d have to meet with their financial adviser. 

Now, because I’m afraid of going to prison, I first want to say I was, at the time, Willie’s power of attorney. 

I’d also like to say I was fine with visiting the adviser. I’ve known him a long time, he has an adorable office, and he’s almost walking distance from Starbucks. 

I went to our appointment straight from hot yoga. So he was maybe not as happy to see me as I was to see him. 

When Indy was alive, he and Willie had separate retirement accounts. Which generated separate tax documents. 

The financial adviser tapped a few computer keys et voilà. Indy’s tax documents popped up on his screen.  

I wanted to leap over the table and press “control P” myself before those documents disappeared.  

But I try not to be that much of a control freak on the outside of my head.  

Also, I was sweaty. I would have slid across that table like Shaun White slides down a half pipe. 

As Indy’s tax documents printed, the adviser looked up Willie’s tax documents. 

Have you guessed it yet? The punchline?  

Yeah. They weren’t there. 

Willie’s tax documents were gone. Missing.  

“Huh,” the adviser said. “This has never happened before.”  

I rolled my eyes.  

Because really.  

This is just life with Willie. Something like this was bound to happen. If the documents had actually been there, the printer would have exploded before they could print. 

Or they would have printed but a truck would have barreled into the office. 

Or I would have made it out of the office but my car would have gone off a bridge, the water beneath dissolving the documents. 

Or I would have safely gotten those documents to the accountant, and she would have plugged those numbers into the tax forms. 

And before she could press “enter” an earthquake would have leveled the building. 

Something was always going to happen to those documents. 

At least this way I’m dry and not, you know, flat. 

The corporate office of Willie’s financial adviser is investigating where, exactly, Willie’s tax documents went. 

And I’m starting to think two and a half years to get these tax returns filed is maybe a touch optimistic.