The Last Direct Message

Marlene stood in the center of her newly emptied office, wearing the ridiculous hat they'd given her at the retirement party—a sparkly number that made her look like a desperate birthday party performer. The corporate pyramid had finally collapsed beneath her, thirty-seven years of climbing reduced to a cardboard box and a plaque about dedication.

At home, her cat Egypt wound through her legs, purring as if Marlene hadn't just lost everything that gave her days structure. She'd named the cat during that phase in her thirties when she'd sworn she'd travel to the real pyramids someday. Instead, she'd climbed the corporate one, reaching the middle management plateau where oxygen grew thin and the view consisted entirely of other people's backsides.

Her iPhone buzzed on the counter—David. Her ex-husband, who'd left five years ago for someone younger, someone who didn't wear her ambition like armor. He was probably checking if she was okay, having heard through the grapevine about the early retirement package. The irony: they'd communicate more now than when they'd shared a bed.

She stared at the phone, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. What could she say? That she'd spent her adult life building someone else's empire? That the pyramid scheme of corporate loyalty had finally revealed itself?

Egypt jumped onto the windowsill, golden eyes fixed on something beyond the glass. Marlene followed her gaze and realized it was the first time in decades she'd been home during daylight hours. The sun was actually warm.

She deleted David's message without reading it, then dropped the hat in the trash. Tomorrow she'd book a flight to Cairo. The real pyramids had waited four thousand years—they could wait one more day for her to stop being the person she'd pretended to be.