“I might.”
His face lit up.
“That’s amazing.”
She watched him carefully.
No calculation.
No, then you can help us more.
No, maybe you can babysit future children.
Just joy.
“What will you do?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Good.”
June frowned.
He smiled.
“You always know too fast.”
She stared.
“Marisol told you that?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
He read the paperwork again.
“You should do it if you want.”
June nodded.
“I think I do.”
“Then do it.”
That simple.
A month later, June signed the retirement package.
Her last shift was scheduled for August 31.
On her final day, the hotel staff filled a conference room with cake, coffee, flowers, and far too many speeches.
Claire came.
Ethan came.
Marisol cried before anyone spoke.
June pretended not to.
Then the hotel manager gave her a plaque.
Thirty-two years of service.
June ran her thumb over the engraved name.
Thirty-two years.
Thousands of rooms.
Thousands of beds.
Guests who never knew her name.
Managers who did.
Coworkers who became family.
