After my divorce, I started a new life and a new career my younger coworkers thought I was too old for. They mocked me until I took on the house no one else would touch, a so-called “haunted” property. But what I uncovered there proved age isn’t the only thing people misjudge.
You never really know what life has planned for you. That’s the beauty and the curse of it. Not long ago, I was a housewife in a thirty-year marriage, raising two grown kids and worrying only about what to make for dinner.
Until the evening I opened our bedroom door and saw my husband with a woman young enough to be our daughter. There was no screaming, no throwing dishes, no crying. I just turned around, packed a suitcase, and walked out.
After all, I was too old for melodrama. The next morning, I filed for divorce. Everyone said I was crazy.
My ex-husband, my daughter, even my son told me to forgive him, to “be practical.” They said living alone at my age was a bad idea, that I’d regret it. But I’d spent my whole adult life taking care of everyone else. For the first time, I had to take care of myself.
I tried different things, but nothing filled the emptiness. Then, one evening, as I was scrolling through job listings, a phrase caught my eye: Real Estate Licensing Course — New Career at Any Age. Maybe it wasn’t too late. The classes were harder than I expected.
My memory wasn’t what it used to be. But finding a job, though, turned out to be the real challenge. I sent out résumé after résumé, dressed up for interviews, and smiled through polite rejections.
“We’re looking for someone with more energy,” one broker said. “More experience,” said another. But their eyes always told the truth:
After months of disappointment, I finally got an email that started with the magic words: We’d like to offer you a position.
On my first day, I stood in front of the mirror for almost an hour, adjusting my new navy suit.
It had cost me more than I could afford, but I wanted to look professional. The office was bright and modern, filled with shiny screens and even shinier people. At lunch, the illusion cracked.
Everyone gathered around a large table, laughing and not one of them offered me a seat. So I took my salad and sat at the smaller table by the window, pretending not to notice. I heard them whispering, then laughing louder.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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