The Cage

It took forty years for the world to stop.

Honestly? I thought it would be more spectacular. A typhoon of destruction. The loss of a love so great it left a human-sized hole in the pit of my stomach.

No. This time, the world petered out in a decidedly lame fashion.

The shrill beeps of the machine sat above my head pulled me from my daydreams. The slight ache of the needle in my arm gradually returned as the nurse ripped open the thin, blue curtain that currently marked my humble abode.

“G’morning.”

Was it morning? I had no idea.

“Gave us quite a fright there, huh?”

I blinked, confused, before the events of that morning began creeping back into my memory.

It had started like any normal day. Alarm went off at 6 am. I got up for my daily dose of caffeine before listening to my father whine about how millennials are ruining their parents’ lives. He screamed at me because, as always, I filled the kettle enough for two cups of coffee, when I was the only one drinking it. I endured a running commentary of all the failed jobs I’ve had since getting made redundant from Stanley Ocean Ltd., and then I sprinted for my 6:30 am train from Old Greenwich Station. Pretty normal stuff.

I’d reached my temping office desk six minutes early, just enough time to check LinkedIn and see if I had any responses to my feelers. Inbox: 0. Yep. Makes sense. No change there.

The morning droned on like a snail competing to prove why its reputation is earned. To be honest, the work these temp agencies had me doing was so easy - making copies, answering phone calls, and making sure the Uber Eats delivery people drop the coffees off on the shelf closest to the elevators - that my mind had nothing better to do than drift.

I hadn’t planned on moving back into my family home at the ripe old age of thirty-nine. I was saving up to buy my own apartment. A safe place to call my own. My memories of home are, well, let’s say not the best and leave it at that. My mom works as a flight attendant, so she’s never at home. You’d think having a young mom would mean plenty of bonding time. Instead, she was out trying to make ends meet while my father, four years her senior, was in charge of the childcare. And boy did he love that job.

You know, it’s a funny thing when every memory you have of your father sends a shot of panic from your stomach to your throat. It’s not like he hit me or anything. Not my body, anyway. One of my earliest memories with my father was of him screaming at me because I accidentally knocked my juice box on the floor after hearing him cussing loudly by the door. He’d seen the crayons I left on the floor in the family room, causing an outburst which multiplied as the box dove toward the floor, flicking grape droplets in its wake. He ran at me, screaming in my face, telling me how much of a disappointment I was. Have you ever met a person who made it their mission to make you feel like any space you take up is too much? That was my father.

Of course, as the years went on, I grew numb to his outbursts. I would try to walk on eggshells, ensuring I made myself as little as possible. But somehow, even when I thought I was doing things right, I was quickly shown the error of my ways. The only respite I got was when Mom was back from flying. Two days every other week was barely time at all to catch your breath.

So when college came around, and Brontë University offered me a scholarship, I grabbed it with both hands and never looked back. I’d spend Christmases and birthdays around the world, meeting Mom wherever she was working that day. Our relationship flourished outside of that house. I followed opportunities wherever they appeared and worked my way from broke student to senior financial advisor in just five short years. It allowed me to move up the ladder in ways that felt foreign. The girl who was destined for nothing was far exceeding her limits.

When Mr Forester walked in on that Thursday morning, grey hair ruffled, tie askew, I knew my luck had run out. Within a matter of days, I’d gone from a well-paid financial consultant to an unemployed mess. Of course, I immediately tried to find another job, but in a recession, nobody’s hiring. Plus, banks are doing everything in their power to replace my job with AI. How can I compete with a bunch of wires that cost less per year than one day of my salary?

I fought with everything I had not to go back to that house. I moved to a more affordable apartment. I tore into my savings, dwindling month after month on rent and utilities. No matter how many temp jobs I worked and how many hours I sacrificed, the money was hemorrhaging. Nine months after I got laid off, I had no choice. It was time to lose my independence. It was time to give up my safety again.

The coffee deliveries felt incessant today. Like a Joe-Joe train. They’d walk in, I’d point to the wall, they’d drop the coffee and be on their way. I was half asleep when a bespectacled man in his 60’s fell through the front door, hands weighed down by trays of hot drinks, grey hair peeking under his soaked, neon green hood. He didn’t seem like the usual delivery driver. His wrinkles gently betrayed him. He should be enjoying his retirement right now, not getting a bunch of over-important startup bros their flat whites.

“Hi!” His smile beamed at me, shining from his lips to his eyes.

I blinked, forgetting that humans actually talk to each other. I returned his smile. “Hi. Orders go over there.”

He looked me over, taking in my tired eyes and slumped body. “I hope one of these is for you!” He chuckled.

“I wish!” I snorted. I hadn’t had a takeout coffee in ten months. Every penny was waiting for a higher purpose. I really missed those barista-made drinks, though.

The man stood there, unmoved. “Man, I wish I were back working behind a desk. My legs don’t work like they used to, ya know?” I nodded as he stretched his leg in emphasis. “But you know, you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.”

“I hope you don’t find this question rude. But how does a guy go from working behind a desk to delivering people’s food?” I considered my words for a moment. “Not that there’s anything wrong with delivering food, of course. It just seems like a thankless job for not a lot of pay.”

“You’re not wrong, young lady.” He winked at me. It had been a long time since I’d been called young… I certainly didn’t feel it. “I worked in insurance. Gave them thirty-seven years of my life. I kept my head down, always made sure my work was done to the best of my abilities. Every time a promotion opportunity would come up, there’d always be someone younger or more …related to the boss… than me. Still, I never let that affect the quality of my work. On my sixty-third birthday, I see an envelope on my desk. I thought, wow how nice, a birthday card. Opened it up, and instead I see a redundancy notice. I was being put out to pasture.”

“I get it, I was made redundant a couple of years ago.”

He nodded. “Well, of course, you’d think thirty-seven years of experience would be an asset. But apparently the date on your I.D. card is more important than what you bring to the table.” I watched as his eyes grew distant, memories tightening his jaw.

“My Linda. Well, we always had a plan to retire together and spend time with the grandkids. But life had other plans. Last year, she was diagnosed with dementia. The medical bills crept up, and the small savings I had went into her care plan.”

He coughed, disguising a small sob. “We have so little time to make new memories together, but instead, I have to spend this time doing whatever I can to make sure her life is as comfortable as it can be.”

My chest stiffened, rejecting the empathetic cries trying to escape. I could barely manage more than a whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s life, I guess,” he shrugged. His phone beeped, breaking the tension in the air. “Better go. More deliveries to do.” He went to leave before whipping his head back around, “Hey, lady?”

“Mm?”

“Life might be hard, but it’s too precious to let anyone steal your shine. Make sure you live life on your terms. You never know when the switch will flip on ya.” And with that somber thought, he was out the glass doors.

My chest felt like it was going to explode under the weight of those suppressed sobs. How could such a kind man, who did everything right, find himself in such hard times? I thought about how many delivery drivers had equally painful, difficult stories that led them to this job. The people they were sacrificing their lives for. The uncertain paydays that made each day feel like a tightrope walk. It was like being a good person wasn’t enough. Sometimes, you were just trapped in an awful situation that no amount of hard work could get you out of.

I started gasping. I needed air. I made my way towards the glass doors where the carousel of drivers had been walking through all morning.

And then everything went black.

“Hun?” I blinked, the concerned nurse’s face coming into focus. “Just try and relax, okay? You had a severe panic attack and passed out. Thankfully, no broken bones. In fact, the guy who brought you in said you fell quite gracefully.” I smiled, thankful for the levity as I was coming to terms with my current situation.

“We’re just going to give you fluids for a few hours to help you recover, then send you back home. Is there anyone we can call?”

I thought about it for a moment. Mom was on a flight to Alaska. I hadn’t been in a relationship in five years. All my friends were 672 miles away. I could call my father. I knew he’d come. I also knew he’d dine on that fact for longer than I could stomach. “No. I’ll just get a taxi. It’s fine.”

“You sure?” She didn’t look convinced. I couldn’t let her know I had no one I could rely on. With all the confidence I could muster, I beamed at her.

“I’m sure.”

The taxi ride home was a strange affair. When you’ve spent most of your life numb, the sudden influx of pain sends a million needles coursing across your skin. The wet New York streets turned into movie screens playing back the rejection of my father throughout my life. The way he had torn my self-esteem. The way he’d taught this seven-year-old girl was that making mistakes was life-shattering. The way he insisted that nothing this eleven-year-old did was good enough. The way he had convinced this fifteen-year-old girl that her presence was unwelcome, no matter what she did. How did I stand a chance to rebuild my life when it had sent me back to the cage it birthed me in?

When I walked through the front door, I went straight to my room and sat by my windowsill. I watched the rain flow from the sky, streaking down my misty windows. My eyes gave in, tears matching the rhythm of the drops in front of me. The rain inside my head had finally escaped, and now the entire city wept with me.