The Quiet Days After the Farewell Party

When I pictured retirement, I imagined something lighter than working life. I thought my days would open up like a wide road, free of alarms, deadlines, and obligations. After more than forty years of showing up on time, answering to someone else’s schedule, and measuring life in weeks and quarters, I believed retirement would feel like relief.

What I didn’t expect was how quietly it would arrive.

At sixty-four, the farewell lunch came and went. There were handshakes, a cake I barely touched, and kind speeches that made me smile and ache at the same time. Then, suddenly, there was nowhere I had to be the next morning.

The first few weeks felt pleasant enough. I slept later. I lingered over breakfast. I told myself this was exactly what I’d earned.

But as the months passed, the hours began to stretch in ways I hadn’t prepared for. With no close family nearby and no set commitments on my calendar, the days blended together. Mornings slipped into afternoons without much distinction. The television filled some of the silence, but not all of it.

Purpose, I learned, doesn’t always announce when it leaves.

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