They say your wedding day should be one of the happiest days of your life. Mine was. A magical ceremony, an intimate celebration with just our closest friends, and a honeymoon that felt like living in a dream. But one week later, reality hit me in the face — and it hit hard.
I’m Suzanna, I’m 30, and until recently, I thought my life was stable. I worked at Henderson Marketing in downtown Oakridge — a quiet job where I kept my head down, did my work well, and went home. Simple. Predictable. Safe. But apparently, that wasn’t enough for some people around me.
My hesitation to open up at work wasn’t because I was unfriendly — far from it. At my last job in Lakeview, I made the mistake of being too trusting — way too trusting. I talked about where I lived, how I got to work, even my commute route. That chatter got me into trouble: someone started following me. Every evening on the train, he was there — waiting, watching — knowing my schedule better than I did.
The police couldn’t do much without solid evidence, so I did what most people would: I quit, moved to Oakridge, bought a cheap Honda with squeaky brakes, and started fresh at Henderson Marketing. I kept to myself. It wasn’t cold — it was self-protection.
Still, some people didn’t understand. “You’re awfully quiet,” my colleague Macy would say with a curious grin from her cubicle. “Don’t you want to join us for lunch?” She was friendly — the curly red hair bouncing, bright voice — but her questions always felt too personal. “Do you have hobbies? A boyfriend? What do you even do outside work?”
I’d always deflect with work talk. “Did you finish the Morrison account review?” Then she’d roll her eyes and laugh, but never stop trying. I had my reasons. Trust had cost me my peace once — I wasn’t repeating that mistake.
Three months ago, everything changed — and all for the better — when George proposed. We’d been together four years, and he knew my past, understood my need for privacy, and never pressured me to open up before I was ready. Our wedding was intimate — just us and twelve college friends in his grandmother’s garden.
The night before, George asked in our hotel room, adjusting his tie, “Are you sure you don’t want to invite anyone from work?”
I shook my head. “If I invite one person, I’d have to invite everyone. And honestly? I don’t want them there. This is about us.”
He kissed my forehead and said simply, “Whatever makes you happy.”
And I was happy. That week in Hawaii — floating on the beach, hand in hand — I felt like nothing could touch that peace.
Back home, George teased me before my first day back: “Welcome back, Mrs. Wiggins!”
I laughed, slipping my ring into a jewelry box. “It’s still Suzanna at the office,” I joked, expecting nothing more than curious glances.
I was so, so wrong.
From the moment I stepped into the office, whispers trailed behind me like shadows: “Is that her?” “Can you believe she didn’t invite anyone?” “So secretive…” “Selfish…”
Halfway to my cubicle, Janet from accounting pulled me aside. “Mrs. Wiggins wants to see you.”
My stomach dropped. Mrs. Wiggins didn’t call people in for casual chat.
Her office reeked of stale coffee and old paperwork. She didn’t look up as I knocked. “Sit down, Suzanna.”
When I asked what was wrong, she practically sneered: “You got married??” When I confirmed, she was incredulous — not congratulatory.
Then came the blow: I was fired.
Not because of performance — my reviews were excellent. Not because of attendance — I never missed a deadline. No — Mrs. Wiggins fired me because I didn’t share my personal life with coworkers, didn’t “integrate with office culture,” and excluded them from my wedding.
She said I showed no commitment to the team, no loyalty, and that my refusal to socialize had created a “hostile work environment.” I sat there stunned — as if privacy was a crime.
As I packed my things — my little fern plant, a photo of my late parents, my favorite coffee mug — Macy’s voice cut through the silence: “Well, well… look who finally gets what she deserves!”
I faced her calmly. “My problem isn’t trusting people,” I said. “My problem was learning not to let the world see everything about me. I made that choice for me. There’s nothing wrong with privacy.”
That evening, George found me at our kitchen table, shaken but supported. My termination letter lay unfolded. I realized something powerful: some people will judge you for protecting yourself, but your peace and dignity matter more than others’ approval.
