**Without Looking Back**
Margaret Whitaker stood before her young manager, hands clasped tightly behind her back. Her gaze was steady, her heart thrumming with quiet resolve. She had just placed her resignation on the desk, and now a tense silence filled the office.
Thomas, the newly appointed supervisor, glanced at the paper, then at Margaret, then back at the letter. His eyebrows lifted slightly, betraying surprise—and a hint of condescension.
“Are you certain?” he asked coolly, pushing the letter aside as if it were nothing more than a scrap.
“Absolutely,” Margaret replied, her voice calm but edged with iron determination.
Thomas leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. Young, ambitious, and already acting as though he had run the company for years, he relished his authority—his smug smile made that clear.
“Margaret, let’s be frank,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “At your age, finding another position won’t be easy. Are you really willing to take such a risk? What if you’re left without means?”
“What makes you think I would be?” she countered without blinking.
Thomas scoffed.
“So you already have a new job lined up?”
“No.”
“Exactly!” he exclaimed, spreading his hands. “Times are hard, especially for people… let’s say, of a certain age.”
“I have plans, Mr. Harrow. Thank you for your concern, but my decision is final. Kindly sign the letter.”
Margaret had no intention of sharing her dreams with this arrogant boy. She stood firm, unyielding, her certainty etched into her expression—and it irked him. Inside, he sneered: *Plans? What plans could an old woman possibly have? Knitting and babysitting?* But aloud, he kept calm. Losing Margaret wasn’t convenient. As much as he despised the “old guard,” their experience was the only thing holding the company together. The young hires came and went, demanding high wages and respect, while the veterans carried the weight.
Realizing he was losing a valuable employee, Thomas changed tactics. Leaning forward, he clasped his hands and softened his voice.
“Margaret, reconsider. The job market is flooded with bright, ambitious graduates. They snap up every opportunity. Are you sure you want to gamble?”
Margaret nearly smiled. *Young and ambitious? Is he describing himself?* Just last week, she had corrected errors in his reports that even a schoolboy wouldn’t have made.
“My decision is made,” she stated. “I’m leaving.”
Thomas’s patience frayed.
“You strike me as an intelligent woman,” he said, emphasizing *strike*. “I didn’t expect such recklessness from you.”
Margaret nearly laughed. Only days ago, she had overheard him call her an “old hag” behind her back. Now he praised her intelligence? The hypocrisy was rich.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she replied, locking eyes with him. “I’m not so clever after all. What was it you called me? An old hag? That fits better, doesn’t it?”
Thomas reddened, clearly unprepared for his own words to be thrown back at him. But he quickly recovered, retreating into his usual smugness.
“Fine. I tried to talk sense into you, but if you’ve made up your mind… I’ll sign it. You may go.”
“Thank you,” she replied briskly.
“And don’t think you can slack off during your notice period,” he added sharply. “One misstep, and I’ll dock your pay. Neglect your duties, and you’ll leave without a penny.”
“Don’t worry *Mr. Harrow*,” Margaret smiled. “I’ll work as diligently as ever.”
Her calm tone only infuriated him more. He clenched his jaw but said nothing.
“By the way,” she added at the door, “I checked your spreadsheets. Fixed all the errors—saved you from embarrassment in front of the team.”
Thomas’s eyes flashed, but before he could retort, Margaret was already gone.
As she walked down the corridor, warmth spread through her chest—the first stirrings of freedom. Leaving the company where she had spent fifteen years hadn’t been an easy choice. Not long ago, the idea of resigning would have seemed madness. But now, for the first time in years, she felt light, as if a weight had been lifted.
Working for the small transport firm in the quiet market town of Thornebury had long ceased to bring her joy. It drained her, poisoned her days. Mornings began with dread—the alarm slicing through silence as Margaret lay staring at the ceiling, unable to rise. She rushed through breakfast, stumbled home exhausted, and only weekends, tending her houseplants or watching her favourite programmes, offered respite. Then Monday came again.
It hadn’t always been this way. Fifteen years ago, she had arrived bright-eyed and eager, mastering new skills with enthusiasm. The team had been warm then, the managers respectful. The wages, modest though they were, had been fair. But under new leadership, everything soured. Young, cocky supervisors—often incompetent but brimming with ambition—turned the place into a misery. Snide remarks, nitpicking, petty fines—all became routine.
Many of the old hands had left. Margaret and a few others endured, though the pay was meagre and the conditions unbearable. You’d think their loyalty and expertise would earn respect—yet all they got were jibes and scorn. Margaret couldn’t understand it. They were the ones keeping the company afloat, training clueless new hires, fixing messes the youngsters couldn’t manage.
Beneath the surface, she seethed. But fear of change kept her rooted. Quit? And do what? Her age, her lack of savings, her niche experience—they all terrified her. She told herself *everyone puts up with things*—yet the bitterness never faded. The only bright spot was her daughter, Emily, who had moved to London after marrying. Margaret would complain about work, about the bosses, about life.
“Mum, ignore them,” Emily would soothe. “That Thomas is just a jumped-up fool. What’s it to you?”
“Easy for you to say!” Margaret would huff. “He’s young enough to be my son, yet he barks orders like I’m nothing! His reports are riddled with mistakes, and *he* lectures *me*!”
“Mum, don’t let it eat at you,” Emily sighed. “Just do your job and don’t give them space in your head.”
But keeping them out was impossible. Resentment festered, and with it, a sense of hopelessness. Margaret saw no way out—until she bumped into an old colleague, Helen.
Helen had quit soon after the new management took over. They’d always got along, and the reunion felt like fate. Over tea, they reminisced.
“I’ve gone into business for myself,” Helen said with a grin. “Opened a flower shop. After the divorce, I came into a bit of money—thought, why not? Always loved flowers, ever since I was young. Used to bring them back from trips abroad, give them to friends. Now it’s proper.”
“Really?” Margaret was amazed. “That must’ve cost a fortune?”
“A fair bit. But I thought—why not try? Worst that happens, it fails. At least I’ll have chased the dream.”
“Good for you,” Margaret said sincerely. “You always had grand ideas.”
“And you? Still at that dreadful place?”
Margaret sighed. “Yes.”
Helen gave her a knowing look.
“Love, it was bad enough when I left. Has it got worse?”
“Much worse,” Margaret admitted, spilling all the frustrations she’d bottled up. It felt good—Helen understood.
*Then why are you still there?* Helen asked.
“Where else would I go? Too old to start over. No other skills.”
“Helen, that’s no way to live,” Helen said firmly. “Life’s slipping by while you let that place crush you.”
Margaret gave a sad smile. “They call me an ‘old hag’ behind my back. Maybe they’re right.”
*Margaret, run while you can!* Helen insisted. *It’s a toxic place—that’s what they call it now. You can’t stay!*
Margaret laughed, but the words struck deep. For the first time, she wondered—*is this really living?* Enduring humiliation, counting days until pension? Helen’s boldness sparked something in her. She remembered her own forgotten passions—like her love for flowers. Perhaps there was another path.
At first, the thought of resigning terrified her. But with Helen’s encouragement, the idea grew—slowly, then irresistibly.
One morning, she woke certain: *Today’s the day.* Writing her resignation, she felt chains loosen. For the first time in years, she was happy.
That evening, she called Emily with the news. She hadn’t told her daughter her plans—only ever complained.
“Mum, finally!” Emily cried. “I thought you’d grind away there till retirement. It was awful!”
“Yes, love. Awful doesn’t cover it,” Margaret chuckled. “Two more weeks, then I’m free.”
“And then what? Have you thought aboutWith her savings, a small loan from Emily, and Helen’s guidance, Margaret turned her love of flowers into a cozy little shop in Thornebury, where every morning brought the sweet scent of blossoms and the quiet joy of beginning again.
