The Final Paycheck

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Forty years. Forty years of showing up early, staying late, swallowing pride, biting my tongue. And this is it? A cake and a card signed by people who’ll forget me by Monday.

I should’ve stayed. I should’ve kept working. What was I thinking? Retirement? That’s just a polite word for ‘good luck surviving.

How am I supposed to afford anything now? Groceries, meds, rent—hell, even the damn candles on this cake probably cost more than I’ll spend on dinner next week.

Who's gonna pay my rent? The pension? That thing’s a joke. My savings? Gone faster than my hairline. Dreams? I gave those up in year twelve.

They say ‘enjoy what’s left. What’s left? A body that creaks, a calendar full of empty days, and a mailbox stuffed with bills.

I traded my youth for stability. My health for deadlines. My dreams for promotions. And now I’m supposed to celebrate?

It’s terrible. It’s terrifying. And the worst part? I smiled when they handed me the knife to cut the cake. Like I wasn’t already sliced thin enough.