Three months before I retired, my manager asked whether I could leave sooner.
I’d worked there for twenty-nine years.
I started when the warehouse had no heating. By the time I left, machines did most of the lifting, and I trained the people who kept them running.
Over the years, I’d missed birthdays, changed vacations, and answered calls halfway through Sunday dinner.
The morning my wife went into labor, I worked half a shift before going to the hospital.
I used to tell that story proudly.
When I gave notice, I expected the last few months to feel strange.
They did.
I was still called over whenever something stopped working, but I no longer received invitations to the meetings about it.
My replacement asked questions. I answered them, then wrote the answers down so he wouldn’t have to remember everything at once.
One afternoon, I heard my manager telling him that my retirement would finally take a big expense off the department’s budget.
I stayed late that evening finishing the troubleshooting notes.
The young man hadn’t done anything wrong. I didn’t want him stuck on his own.
Last Friday was my final day.
HR sent a checklist: access card, locker key, company jacket.
By the time I’d returned everything, my manager had already left.
There was no gathering. A few people said, “Enjoy yourself,” as I passed.
In the break room, I took my old mug from the cupboard.
A new employee looked up.
“You’re not supposed to take things from here.”