Days pass slowly after that incident, each one dragging into the next.
The store feels different now, a place of discomfort where the walls seem to close in.
I avoid looking at Mark, aware of his presence yet trying to ignore it.
The wrenching feeling in my stomach hasn’t subsided, a constant reminder of my precarious position.
Customers come and go, some familiar, others new, all unaware of the undercurrents beneath the surface.
I try to focus on tasks at hand, checking inventory, organizing shelves, small things that keep my mind occupied.
But it’s impossible to escape the looming board meeting.
Every time the thought crosses my mind, my heart beats a little faster, a steady drum of anxiety.
The phone rings occasionally, a jarring sound that breaks the monotony.
I hesitate each time, fearing it’s another family member trying to reach me.
Instead, I let the calls go to voicemail, not ready to face their questions or accusations.
Mark, on the other hand, seems unfazed.
He moves through the store with the same air of authority, issuing orders and making decisions without a care.
His confidence is unsettling, a stark contrast to my uncertainty.
Despite the tension, I find small moments of solace.
In the quiet hours before closing, when the store empties out, I sit behind the counter, letting the silence wash over me.
It’s a brief respite, a moment to gather my thoughts before heading home to another silent dinner.
The anticipation of the meeting is a shadow that follows me everywhere, looming larger with each passing day.
I know I can’t avoid it, and yet, the thought of facing it makes me feel even smaller.
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