Twelve years is a long time to pour your life into a place that never planned to give anything back. I learned that sitting at my desk in an office that always smelled like burnt coffee and quiet desperation, listening to a man explain—politely—that I was no longer needed. My name is Misty. I’m thirty-seven, a single mother of two, and until recently I was the office manager at a mid-sized logistics company that functioned largely because of work no one ever officially acknowledged. Payroll, scheduling, contracts, vendor negotiations, reconciliations—I handled it all. I was the unseen framework holding everything...
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