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Chapter 9
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I don’t remember signing up for emotional damage.
I need to take some time off work next week. I’m going back home for my mother’s sixtieth birthday.
I need to take some time off work next week. I’m going back home for my mother’s sixtieth birthday. I need t—
“Racheal, hi. Good morning.” I smile a bit too bright as I fumble into my boss’s office with her coffee, breakfast, and schedule. “You have a meeting at ten with the Grant Foundation.”
She sighs, morosely, and extends her hand for her coffee.
I deliver it.
“You’re a lifesaver, honey. This meeting might go over a bit. See if you can push the rest of my schedule back by about thirty minutes.”
My stomach knots, and I say, “No problem,” even though it’s a big problem, a minimum of seven emails, and thirty minutes of rearranging the color-coded blocks on her planner if the rest of her day doesn’t turn into a pile of spaghetti thanks to this change.
If only I’d mentioned the probability of her needing more of a cushion for this meeting when it came up last month.
Oh. Wait.
She takes a sip of her coffee, then sits up a bit straighter. “Right. I finally got around to looking over the data you gave me a few weeks ago.” Her smile lights up the room. “Incredible.”
A thrill shoots to my toes. “I’m so glad it was helpful.”
“Absolutely. It laid everything out so clearly. The board and I were able to see the places where we were falling short, so now we’re auditing the entire process in an effort to streamline it.” Racheal scoots toward her two monitors, types something in, and absently notes, “Once we have the new information together, would you be willing to compile it again in a slightly different way?”
“Of course!” My throat constricts the words as I wrap my head around what she’s just said. They’re overhauling the content. All the work I did is going to be obsolete. I will need to do it again. Maybe the sinking, suffocating, horrible feeling in my chest wouldn’t be there if someone had listened to me when I mentioned that this process would need an overhaul before I put hours into it. I looked over the data before I put it together, and I saw better options clearly, so I worked up tons of courage to mention it…only to be disregarded.
“You’re amazing, honey.” Her eyes cut my way, locating her breakfast, and she taps the place beside her coffee. “You can leave that here. Hopefully I’ll have time to eat.” The echo of her laughter carries me out of the room, and I manage to reach my desk without crying.
I am so tired.
But it’s fine.
It’s fine.
This is my job.
Except it isn’t. It’s way more than my job. And I’ve put in way more time than my job calls for, too.
I am underpaid and overworked, so tired, and I need to ask for time off, even though I can’t shake the crippling sensation of guilt and fear.
I’m on salary.
Asking for time off is like cheating. They’re still paying me even though I’m not working. Even though I know I have already worked more than my agreement requires, it still feels wrong. And then what if in my absence someone else does everything I’m doing better than I can? When they realize they don’t need me, I won’t have a job.
Even though I’ll still have a mortgage.
And a child.
And a long trip with obligatory birthday gifts, eating out, gas, potential flat tires, other car maintenance, and an oil change.
That’s right. I need to schedule an oil change this weekend. I’m already overdue.
I can’t keep living like this.
