I had given five loyal years to that office—early mornings, late nights, and quiet fixes no one else wanted to touch. So when my manager called me in one Friday afternoon and said my role was being “restructured,” I understood the language immediately. His daughter had just graduated and needed a job. My desk was about to become hers. I accepted it with professional calm, even as my stomach twisted.
Before I left, he handed me a stack of folders. “Could you finish these reports by next Friday?” he asked. “It would really help with the transition.” I nodded, took the folders, and walked out carrying a box of belongings and a storm of emotions I didn’t show.
