The day I lost my job, I still showed up fifteen minutes early.
I had no idea it would be the last time I'd walk through those doors.
Around lunchtime, my manager asked me to come into his office. He looked uncomfortable. After a long pause, he slid an envelope across the desk.
"We're making cuts," he said. "I'm sorry."
I packed my desk into a cardboard box, shook a few hands, and walked out trying not to look back.
The first few weeks were rough.
I sent out applications every day. Some companies never replied. Others rejected me after the interview. My savings started disappearing faster than I wanted to admit.
One evening, my mom called.
"How's the job search going?"
I smiled, even though she couldn't see me.
"It's getting there."
I didn't want her worrying.
A month later, my phone rang while I was making breakfast.
It was a company I'd interviewed with weeks earlier.
"We'd like to offer you the position," the woman said.
The salary was almost twice what I'd been earning.
I accepted before she could finish explaining the benefits.
The new job was everything the old one wasn't. The managers listened. My coworkers actually helped each other. For the first time in years, Mondays didn't feel so heavy.
About six months later, I got a call from my former manager.
"We've had a few people leave," he said. "Would you be interested in coming back? We'd even match your old salary."
I looked around my new office and smiled.
"Thank you," I said, "but I'm already where I belong."
He wished me well before hanging up.
I placed my phone back on the desk, took a sip of my coffee, and got back to work without a second thought.