That sentence.
I don’t want you to.
For four years, I had wanted Gavin’s approval.
Wanted him to recognize my work.
Wanted the promotion.
Wanted the corner office.
Wanted to prove I belonged.
And suddenly, none of it mattered.
Gavin looked almost wounded.
“You’re throwing away four years.”
“No.”
I picked up the cardboard box.
“You did.”
Then I began clearing my desk.
My daughter’s mug.
The headphones.
Two framed photographs.
A notebook filled with campaign concepts.
A tiny plastic astronaut Lucy had hidden inside my drawer two years earlier because she said offices were “boring without space people.”
Coworkers quietly came over.
Some hugged me.
Some apologized for not saying anything earlier.
One whispered, “You deserved better.”
Nina cried.
That almost made me cry again.
When I finished, Eleanor was still waiting.
“You don’t have to stay,” I told her.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
