My knees had started complaining every morning.
My shoulders were stiff.
My lower back reminded me daily that I was no longer thirty.
I had spent my adult life waking before sunrise.
Opening stores.
Meeting suppliers.
Fixing refrigeration systems.
Reviewing payroll.
Negotiating leases.
Driving between locations.
Solving problems no customer ever knew existed.
I was tired.
Not broke.
Not helpless.
Just tired.
But the moment I told Ethan and Vanessa I planned to retire, their expressions changed.
They assumed retirement meant failure.
Maybe I had helped create that misunderstanding.
I had never looked wealthy.
My truck was twelve years old.
The passenger door had a dent from a grocery cart that rolled across a parking lot during a storm.
My favorite shirts were flannel.
My boots were repaired more often than replaced.
Whenever Ethan asked what I still did for work, I usually said,
“I help out at the stores.”
