When I pictured retirement, I imagined relief—a wide, open stretch of time free from alarms and deadlines. After more than forty years of living by someone else’s schedule, I thought it would feel lighter. What I didn’t expect was how quietly it would arrive. The farewell lunch passed, the cake went untouched, and suddenly there was nowhere I had to be.
At first, it felt earned. I slept late and lingered over breakfast. But as weeks turned into months, the days began to blur. With no close family nearby and no real commitments, time stretched uncomfortably. I wasn’t unhappy—just untethered.
One morning, I walked into a small café I’d always passed by. Nothing special happened, but I returned the next day. And the next. The routine mattered more than the coffee. The walk, the same table, the same order—it gave my mornings shape.
The waitress learned my name. She remembered my drink. Those brief exchanges made me feel visible again.
Then one day, she was gone.
The café felt strangely hollow. That was when I realized how much meaning I’d quietly attached to something so small—and how deeply I missed it.
