They laughed when they fired me, the sound sharp enough to follow me down the elevator shaft and into the street like static I couldn’t turn off. HR called it restructuring;
Derek called it necessary. I called it a miscalculation.
Paper doesn’t forget, and neither did I.
Every late-night audit, every buried discrepancy, every quiet transfer of proxy rights waited in a folder named after a joke they’d once made about my “obsessive spreadsheets.”
On Thursday at nine a.m., the numbness cracked, the last email left my outbox, and the countdown to their surp… Continues…
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