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It started like any other exhausting Tuesday. I was hunched over my desk, buried in spreadsheets and battling yet another revision of a report that just wouldn’t come together. My eyes burned from staring at the screen all day, and the soft ache in my neck had crept into my shoulders. The office was nearly silent—eerily so. That kind of quiet only settles in once the regular crowd has packed up and gone home.
I glanced out the window. The evening sky had settled into a deep, velvety blue. The city lights twinkled like distant promises I didn’t have time to chase. Overhead, the fluorescent bulbs buzzed softly, casting a sterile glow that seemed to underline just how lonely this office could feel after hours.
Finally, I leaned back and reached for my coat. I was ready to call it a night, ready to escape the gray silence.
Then the door creaked open.
Michael—my boss—stepped in.
He was always composed. Crisp suits, polished shoes, and an expression that could either disarm you or dissect you, depending on the day. He was in his mid-50s, with silver hair that made him look distinguished rather than old, and eyes that always seemed to see more than you wanted to reveal.
Without a word, he dropped a thick folder on my desk.
“I need this finished tonight,” he said calmly, without making eye contact. “Final report. On my desk in the morning.”
I looked at the clock: 7:53 PM.
“Michael, I’ve been here since before nine,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could.
He gave a small nod. “I know. But it needs to be done.”
Then, as if he was about to say something else, he paused—his mouth opened slightly. But whatever thought was perched on the tip of his tongue, he swallowed it.
“Never mind,” he said, shaking his head. “Some other time.”
And just like that, he walked out.
I sat there, stunned and seething, heart pounding in my chest.
Just six more months, I reminded myself. Six more months, and I’d be gone from this job—and him—for good.
A Call That Changed Everything
Later that night, slumped in the driver’s seat of my car, the heater sputtering lukewarm air, my phone rang. It was Aunt Jenny.
“Alice!” she chirped, full of her usual unfiltered cheer. “Don’t forget—you’re giving me a ride to the wedding!”
My brow furrowed. “What wedding?”
She laughed like I was being coy. “Your mother’s wedding! Don’t play dumb.”
The words hit me like a slap.
“Mom’s… getting married?”
There was a long pause.
“She didn’t tell you?” Jenny asked, her voice now softer, more cautious.
I didn’t answer. I just hung up and drove straight to my mother’s house, hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles went white.
The Door She Didn’t Want to Open
She answered the door in her usual pink slippers and that old cardigan she wore when the weather turned cool. It still smelled faintly of lilac and tea—comforting scents from childhood. Everything about her looked the same, yet suddenly unfamiliar.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were getting married?” I asked, my voice shaking.
She looked down, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve. “I was going to. I just… didn’t know how.”
“Am I even invited?”
Her silence told me everything before she nodded—barely.
“It’s easier this way,” she whispered.
“For whom?” I snapped. “Because it’s not easier for me.”
“You’ve been under so much stress,” she said. “I didn’t want to pile on more.”
I stared at her, wounded. “I’m not a child. I’m your daughter.”
She met my eyes then, and in hers I saw layers—regret, fear, sadness, maybe even shame. I turned and walked away before the tears could fall.
But one thing was clear: I was going to that wedding.
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