The notice period lasted thirty days.
Strangely, Temi did some of her best work during it.
The fear was gone.
She came in.
Worked.
Delivered.
Went home.
No proving herself.
No hoping the next campaign would finally make somebody see her differently.
One Friday, Chidinma pulled a chair beside her.
“How did you know it was time?”
Temi looked at her.
There was so much she could say.
Instead, she asked, “Do you have somewhere you keep record of your work?”
Chidinma shook her head.
“Start.”
“Like a portfolio?”
“Portfolio, notes, whatever works. Just know what you're doing here and keep proof of your own work.”
Chidinma nodded.
Temi smiled.
That was enough.
Her last day came quietly.
Everything she owned in the office fit inside one tote bag.
Water bottle.
Photo of her mother.
Small Lagos print from the wall.
At five, Mr. Biodun gathered everyone.
“Temi has been a valuable member of the team. We wish her all the best in her next chapter.”
Everybody clapped.
Temi smiled.
“Thank you.”
No speech.
No confrontation.
No final revelation that made Mr. Biodun understand what he had done.
Temi no longer needed one.
She picked up her tote bag and walked through the glass door.
It closed behind her.
On Monday, her alarm went off at 5:45 a.m.
Temi opened her eyes.
For one confused second, she thought about the bridge.
Then remembered.
She turned off the alarm and slept until 7:30.
When she woke again, her mother was making tea.
“Good morning, unemployed person.”
“Mummy!”
Her mother laughed.
Temi picked up her phone and opened her banking app.
₦47,000.
Her stomach tightened.
Almost exactly where she had started.
For a moment, the fear returned.
What if Biodun was right?
Temi stared at the number.
Then closed the app.
Same balance.
Different woman.
She opened her laptop.
Opened the essay.
Read it once.
Then clicked Publish.