The Quiet Days After the Farewell Party

A Familiar Face Matters More Than You Think

As weeks turned into months, the café became a quiet anchor in my day. I didn’t linger longer than necessary, and we never spoke about anything deeply personal. Still, her kindness mattered.

It reminded me that I was visible.

In retirement, invisibility can creep up on you. You’re no longer needed in the same way. No one expects you to show up at a certain hour or contribute to a meeting. That simple recognition, a name spoken out loud, can mean more than it should.

I started timing my mornings around that visit. If I woke up feeling restless or aimless, I told myself, “Just go get your coffee.” That was enough to get me moving.

I didn’t think of it as loneliness at the time. I thought of it as habit.

When the Routine Breaks

Then one morning, the routine broke.

I walked into the café, nodded at the counter, and waited for her familiar greeting.

It didn’t come.

Someone else took my order. Polite. Efficient. But not her.

I told myself not to think anything of it. People take days off. Schedules change.

But the next day, she still wasn’t there.

And the next.

Her absence felt larger than it should have. The café was the same, the coffee tasted the same, but something essential was missing. The brief connection I’d come to rely on had quietly disappeared.

Eventually, curiosity got the better of me. I asked another staff member if she was coming back.

They hesitated before answering.

“She doesn’t work here anymore,” they said.

I nodded and thanked them, then sat down with my coffee feeling unexpectedly unsettled.

Continue reading…