Happy Birthday, Ellen

I’m in the middle of typing the customary closing pleasantries in my resignation letter when off-key singing interrupts me. The same colleagues I praised for their professionalism a minute earlier now gather at my door, wearing cone-shaped hats. I close the file and fake surprise.

The song ends on a shrill note, and the four women gust towards me. A massive chocolate cake is pushed into my embrace. I squint at the waxen thirty on the frosting: it reminds me of a voluptuous music box ballerina, fiery head swirling, burning herself slowly out of shape.

I'm too hot in my blazer. Why do offices never get the temperature right?

Across from me, our team lead glowers at the candle with that 'future leader' face she'd picked up in her management seminars. On our last team-building trip, she told me over a bottle of red, 'Nobody cares if we’re actually smart, Ellen. It’s quotas that matter, so take what you can.' Her grin was red-teethed and grim.

She doesn't know I'm quitting and I don’t want to explain there’s just no point in managing managers for the sake of management.

‘We’ve got you something,’ says my beautiful colleague and hands me a small box. When she joined the team, we all tried to hate her, but she’s simply too stunning. Perhaps it’s ignorant, but I can’t picture her lying in bed at night, thoughts spinning whatamIdoingwhatamIdoing. So when she asks me what I was working on just now, I say ‘Oh, nothing,’ push the box to the side, and point at the candle. ‘Look! It’s crying.’ 

Big waxen tears melt the thirty. 

The two mothers on our team share anecdotes of their brilliant progeny, but what they’re really doing is verbal sleight of hand. It always starts with My Sarah this or My Tommy that and — ta-da — a minute later it’s all about them. Both mothers work full-time, but help with school projects, plan extracurricular activities, and cook healthy meals twice a day. They make it sound so normal, but I wonder if they register that their eyelids are at constant half-mast. 

I haven’t spoken to my mum in years, and don’t expect a call today either. I can vividly imagine what these two would say if I told them: This must be a misunderstanding or You’ll be sorry when she’s gone or — my personal favourite — She’s your mother! 

The usual shit. As if no matter how much she’d hurt you, you still owe her. As if cutting her off were a choice, not a necessity.

I wish I could tell them to leave and let me finish my letter. Instead, I grab a second piece of cake.

An email pops up in my inbox from leadership: Due to the closure of the company, all employment contracts are terminated effective immediately.

I read it again. And once more. Sweat gathers at my hairline, above my lip.

What I think I'm saying is, 'But I wanted to quit!', but what I hear myself say aloud is, 'How can they let me go?'

Distantly, I register that the cake-munching merriment has stopped. The weight of four pairs of eyes presses down on me. ‘They sacked you, Ellen?’

I wait for their false pity hiding their smirks, their gloating glances when they think I don’t see them. I want to watch them crumble when they realise it's not just me.

But they reach me before I can speak and I'm cocooned in female softness. Like one body, their smell and touch soothe me. Their comfort confuses me. I push a shoulder away, shrug off a hand stroking my arm. One of the mothers presses my head against her breast, my fingers getting tangled in her hair. The words I wanted to say start blurring in my mind, forming new meanings, until all I can think is, 'Please, hold me just a little bit tighter.'

When it’s over, I feel sick. I wish it was because of too much cake.

‘Oh no, it’s ruined,’ says our team lead with a look at the cake. Rivulets of wax have run over the remaining pieces, already hardening. ‘Do you want me to toss it in the bin?’

But I shake my head. I can’t bring myself to throw it away yet.  

They leave in pairs, like a funeral procession. I can’t stop picturing them in a few minutes from now, their faces drained of blood, fumbling for their phones. Nobody will remember that today was my birthday.