There is a peculiar fantasy many of us carry—rarely admitted, often indulged.

The day we leave a job, they will not simply nod and move on.

There will be murmurs. Slack channels will combust. Someone will say, “This is a mistake.” Someone else will say it louder. Meetings will be called. Decisions will be questioned.

Not quite garments torn in the style of biblical grief, but close enough to suggest that our absence has weight.

And yet—because life has a cruel sense of humour—reality is quieter.

An email goes out. Warm, polished, faintly generic. A few genuinely kind messages arrive. Then calendars refill, chairs shift, logins are reassigned, and the system—however chaotic, inefficient, or faintly dysfunctional it may be—absorbs the loss.

No uprising. No rebellion.

I was allegedly not particularly good at my job.

Not spectacularly bad—no disasters worth retelling—but persistently, almost impressively, inconsistent. The same small mistakes, resurfacing with a kind of loyalty I could not inspire in anything else.

Some of that is mine.

Repetition should, in theory, lead to mastery. In my case, it occasionally led to… familiarity. I missed things I should have caught. I learned more slowly than was ideal. There is no........

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