My name is Arnold, and at 60, I never thought I’d be starting over. But here I am, fired from the only job I’ve ever known. I spent 35 years pouring myself into that place, and they tossed me out like yesterday’s trash.
And it wasn’t just the loss that broke me… it was the reason.
A streak of golden light laced through the kitchen window, draping itself across the table like memory. I sat across from my wife, Matilda, watching her hands shake as she buttered my toast.
The tremor had gotten worse lately, but she still insisted on making my lunch every single day.
“You don’t have to do this, Mattie,” I said, reaching across to steady her hand. “I can grab something from the cafeteria. You must rest.”
She looked up, her eyebrows drawn.
“Really? Since when do you spend on cafeteria food?”
I opened my mouth, but stood speechless. She already knew the truth — I’d rather go hungry than spend a dime that could go toward her meds.
Matilda pulled away gently, her eyes fierce despite the exhaustion etched in every line of her face.
“Arnie, I’ve been making your lunch for 35 years. I’m not stopping now.”
I watched her wrap the sandwich in wax paper, the same way she’d done it thousands of times before. This wasn’t just about food…
it was about love, the life we’d built together, and holding onto something normal when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
“Besides,” she added with a weak smile, “someone has to make sure you’re eating properly. You’d live on coffee and worry if I let you.”
I kissed her forehead, tasting the salt of her medication. “What did I do to deserve you?”
“You married me before I came to my senses,” she laughed.
The factory floor hummed with its familiar rhythm as I clocked in at 7:30 a.m., same as I had for decades.
The smell of cotton and machine oil was home to me.
I’d started here at 25, fresh-faced and eager. Now my hands were rough, my back ached, but I knew these machines like old friends.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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