My name is Arnold. I’m 60 years old, and I never thought I’d be starting over at this age. But here I am—jobless. I was fired from the only place I’d ever worked. After 35 years of showing up every single day, giving everything I had, they tossed me aside like I was nothing. And it wasn’t just losing the job that broke me. It was why they let me go.
That morning, golden sunlight streamed through the kitchen window and landed softly on the table. It reminded me of all the quiet mornings we’d spent together. I sat across from my wife, Matilda—Mattie, as I call her. Her hands were shaking again as she buttered my toast, the tremor worse than usual. But she still insisted on making my lunch like always.
“You don’t have to do this, Mattie,” I said gently, reaching across the table to steady her hand. “I can just grab something from the cafeteria. You need to rest.”
She looked up, raising one tired eyebrow. “Really? Since when do you spend money on cafeteria food?”
I opened my mouth to answer but said nothing. She already knew the truth—I’d rather skip lunch than waste money that could go toward her medicine.
Matilda slowly pulled her hand away, her eyes still sharp and strong even as the rest of her body grew weaker. “Arnie, I’ve been making your lunch for 35 years. I’m not stopping now.”
I watched her wrap the sandwich in wax paper, just like she always did. This wasn’t about lunch. It was about love. About keeping a little bit of normal when everything else felt like it was falling apart.
“Besides,” she said with a small smile, “someone’s got to make sure you’re eating right. You’d live on coffee and worry if I let you.”
I leaned in and kissed her forehead, tasting the salty film left by her medication. “What did I do to deserve you?”
“You married me before I came to my senses,” she teased.
At 7:30 a.m., I clocked in at the factory. The machines were humming, the smell of cotton and oil filled the air. To most people, it was just a noisy, dirty place. But to me, it was home.
“Morning, Arnie!” Danny from the spinning section called.
“You’re early again,” he added.
“Old habits,” I said, inspecting the thread rolls. “These machines won’t fix themselves.”
I’d trained Danny years ago, along with half the crew. I’d watched them grow up, get married, move on. But I stayed. This place had paid our bills, got our girls through school, and carried us through Mattie’s illness.
But at lunch, everything changed.
I opened the breakroom fridge and felt my stomach sink. The spot where I left my lunchbox—gone. Again.
“Not again,” I muttered.
Third time this week someone had stolen my lunch. It wasn’t just a sandwich. It was food my sick wife had made with hands that shook from illness. It was love, effort… and someone had taken it without a second thought.
“Something wrong, Arnold?” Lisa from accounting asked, setting her fancy takeout on the table.
“Someone keeps taking my lunch,” I said quietly. “Third time this week.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s awful. Some people are just… selfish.”
I nodded, but inside, I was boiling. This wasn’t just careless. This was cruel.
That evening, I helped Mattie into her chair by the window so she could watch the birds.
“How was your day?” she asked softly, even though I could see how tired she was.
“It was fine,” I lied.
But she knew me too well. “You’re grinding your teeth again, Arnie. You only do that when something’s bothering you.”
I let out a long breath and sat down beside her. “Someone’s been stealing my lunch at work.”
Her face fell. “Oh no… the lunch I made?”
“Yeah. It’s not just about the food, Mattie. It’s about respect. You push yourself every morning just to make it, and someone’s treating it like a free snack.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’ll post in the work group chat. Ask them to stop.”
“You’re too good sometimes, Arnie,” she whispered, squeezing my hand.
The next morning, I typed the message:
“Hey everyone, whoever’s been taking my lunch, please stop. This needs to end.”
Responses came in slowly.
“Ugh, that sucks!” Jennifer wrote.
“Some people are the worst,” Mark added.
But that was it. No one confessed. No one offered to help. Just a bunch of shrugging emojis and fake sympathy.
By Friday, it happened again. Lunch—gone.
That morning, Mattie had spent twenty minutes mashing potatoes. Her hands shook so badly I had to look away. But she refused to let me help. “Let me do this, Arnie,” she said. “I need to feel useful.”
That was the last straw.
I picked up the phone and called Pete, my old friend who ran a shop.
“Pete, you got any mini-fridges?”
“Just got one in. Barely used. Why?”
“I’ll explain later. Can I pick it up Sunday?”
“For you? Fifty bucks. It’s yours.”
Monday morning, I wheeled the fridge into the factory. It wasn’t big—just enough for lunch and a coffee thermos. I locked it and slid it under my desk.
People stared.
“What’s that?” asked Karen from the front.
“My lunch fridge.”
“Your what?”
“Someone keeps stealing my food. This fixes that.”
She blinked like I had three heads. “That’s… weird.”
Word spread fast.
“This is ridiculous,” someone whispered behind me.
“Selfish,” another voice muttered.
Two weeks later, my manager’s assistant showed up. “Mr. Thompson wants to see you.”
My heart jumped. I hadn’t had a raise in six years. Maybe—just maybe—this was it.
I walked into the office. Mr. Thompson didn’t even look up.
“Sit down, Arnold.”
I sat. Hope fluttered inside me.
Then he slid papers across the desk. “I’m letting you go.”
“What?” I said, stunned.
“You’re fired. Effective immediately.”
I couldn’t move. “What did I do?”
“You’re not a team player anymore. That fridge thing… It’s paranoid. Unprofessional.”
I stared. “Someone stole my food. My wife—she’s sick. She makes my lunch every day. And someone took it.”
He shrugged. “You should’ve bought vending machine snacks.”
“I’ve been here 35 years! I trained most of the team!”
“You’re getting older, Arnold. We need speed. Energy. People feel like your behavior is disruptive.”
Disruptive? For protecting my wife’s effort?
“You called me paranoid,” I said quietly. “I gave everything to this place.”
“Your last check is in the envelope. Security will escort you out.”
I walked out carrying my mini-fridge, lunch still inside, while coworkers stared. Some looked sad. Most didn’t even meet my eyes.
I sat in my car for 20 minutes before going inside.
Mattie looked up from her crossword. “You’re home early… Arnie? What happened?”
“I got fired.”
She jumped up. “What?! Why?!”
“Because I brought a fridge to protect the lunch you make me. They called me too old. Too slow.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but her voice was hard. “Those snakes. Those ungrateful snakes.”
We called our daughters. They were furious. But I could hear the fear in their voices too. We’d always promised never to be a burden.
Then something strange happened.
Two days later, I started getting phone calls.
“Is this Arnold?”
“Yes…”
“We’d like to offer you a position. Full benefits. Good pay.”
Calls kept coming. Food deliveries started arriving. Gift baskets. Dinners. Flowers.
I was confused. Then my grandson called.
“Grandpa! You really got fired for bringing a fridge to work?”
“How do you know about that?”
“Mom told me. I posted it online. It went viral! Everyone’s talking about it!”
“Viral?” I asked, confused.
“It means a lot of people are on your side. They’re mad at your old company.”
I choked up. “People are actually… supporting me?”
“Of course! Thirty-five years of loyalty and they fire you over lunch? You showed them what real dignity looks like.”
The next day, my phone rang again.
“Arnold, it’s Mr. Thompson…”
“Stop right there,” I said.
“I want to apologize. Could you ask your grandson to remove the post? We’d like to offer you your job back. Maybe even a raise—”
“I don’t need your job,” I said firmly. “I have my dignity.”
“Arnold, be reasonable—”
“Reasonable? You humiliated me. You called me paranoid. I carried a fridge and my broken pride out of that building while everyone watched. I’m not coming back.”
I hung up.
That morning, I signed with Riverside Manufacturing. Better pay. Better people. My new manager shook my hand and said, “We take care of our team here.”
Now, Mattie naps peacefully by the window. Birds flutter outside. And I finally feel something I haven’t felt in a long time—hope.
If you’re reading this, remember:
Stand up for yourself.
Don’t let anyone tell you that loyalty doesn’t matter.
Because respect?
Respect is everything.
