I had given everything to the people I loved, my time, my trust, my heart. And only then did I finally see the truth. I’m glad to have you here.
Follow my story until the end and comment the city you’re watching from so I can see how far my story has reached. The pink slip came on a Tuesday morning in November, delivered with the same casual indifference as the morning coffee. Twenty‑three years at Henderson and Associates, and Mr.
Peterson couldn’t even look me in the eye when he handed me that envelope. His office smelled like burnt coffee and stale printer ink, the same way it had the first day I walked in wearing a thrift‑store blazer and trembling with nerves. “Budget cuts, Maxine.
You understand?” he said, already glancing past me toward the hallway, as if hoping the uncomfortable part would be over quickly. I understood. All right.
At sixty‑three, I was expensive insurance and outdated skills wrapped in a body that reminded everyone how long I’d been there. The younger girls, with their computer wizardry and social media savvy and never‑ending energy drinks, had been circling my desk like vultures for months. They spoke a language of apps and metrics and “synergy” I’d never quite managed to learn.
My hands only shook once, when I broke the seal on the envelope and saw the words “termination effective immediately.” After that, I went strangely calm. Shock does that sometimes. It puts you in a glass bubble so you can walk through the ruins of your own life without falling apart in front of everyone.
I cleaned out my desk in silence, packing twenty‑three years of my life into a cardboard box the janitor dragged out from the supply closet. The small cactus Amaya had given me for my birthday three years ago went in first. It had two new arms now, stubbornly reaching toward the fluorescent lights like it still believed in the sun.
Then the photo of Amaya’s graduation, my arm around her shoulders while she held her diploma up to the camera. Finally the coffee mug that read “World’s Best Mom,” a title I was apparently about to lose along with everything else. The young account manager across the aisle, Jenna, pretended not to stare as I wrapped my framed certificates in newspaper.
She’d started three months ago and already had her name on two big client portfolios. When she finally worked up the nerve to walk over, she looked like she was approaching a wild animal. “I’m so sorry, Maxine,” she whispered.
“If there’s anything I can do…”
I almost laughed. What could she do? Fire herself in solidarity?
“That’s kind of you,” I said instead. “Take care of the cactus for me. He likes a little water on Fridays.”
She smiled weakly, already half turned back to her desk.
The hallway from my cubicle to the elevator had never felt so long. My sensible shoes squeaked on the polished floor. No one stopped me.
A few people glanced up from their screens and then quickly looked away, as if job loss were contagious and they might catch it by making eye contact. Outside, the November air in our Midwestern city had teeth. The sky hung low and gray, threatening snow that hadn’t yet committed to falling.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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