They say your wedding day is supposed to be the happiest day of your life. Mine was. But what happened one week later shattered me.

I’m Suzanna. I’m 30, and until recently, I thought I had my life figured out. I worked at Henderson Marketing in downtown Oakridge, kept my head down, did my job, and went home. Simple. Clean. Safe.

But apparently, that wasn’t enough for them.

You see, I had my reasons for keeping to myself. At my previous job in Lakeview, I made the mistake of being too open. I’d chat about my weekend plans, my commute, even where I lived. And then—someone started following me.

Every evening on the train, there he was. Watching. Waiting. He knew my schedule better than I did.

The police couldn’t help without solid evidence. So I did the only thing I could: I quit, moved to Oakridge, bought a beat-up Honda, and started fresh at Henderson.

“You’re awfully quiet,” my coworker Macy would say from the next cubicle. She had bouncy red curls and a voice that could slice through silence. “Don’t you want to grab lunch with us? We’re going to that new place on Fifth.”

“Thanks, but I’m good,” I’d say, not looking up.

She tried to probe. “So what do you do for fun? Got a boyfriend? Any hobbies?”

“Speaking of lunch… did you finish the Morrison account review?”

Macy would narrow her eyes. “You act like we’re all contagious or something. Seriously, what’s your deal?”

“I just prefer to keep work and personal life separate.”

“That’s not normal, you know.”

I didn’t care if it wasn’t “normal.” Trust had once cost me my peace. I wasn’t repeating that mistake.

Three months ago, George proposed. We’d been together four years. He knew about my past and understood why I kept walls up. Our wedding was perfect—just us and 12 close friends in his grandmother’s garden in Cedar Pines.

“You sure you don’t want to invite anyone from work?” George asked the night before.

“Positive. If I invite one, I have to invite all. And this day’s about us.”

He kissed my forehead. “Whatever makes you happy.”

And I was. Our honeymoon in Hawaii felt like floating above the clouds.

Until reality dragged me back.

“Welcome back, George’s wife!” he teased on my first morning back.

“It’s still Suzanna at the office,” I laughed, slipping my wedding ring into my jewelry box. It was beautiful, but I didn’t need the attention it would draw at work.

How naive I was.

The moment I walked into Henderson, I knew something was off. Whispers chased me to my desk. Eyes followed like searchlights.

“Is that her?”

“Can you believe it?”

“So secretive.”

“So selfish.”

I hadn’t even sat down when Janet from accounting approached.

“Suzanna, Mrs. Wiggins wants to see you. Now.”

My stomach dropped.

Mrs. Wiggins never did surprise meetings.

Her office reeked of stale coffee and rigid order. She didn’t look up when I knocked.

“Sit down.”

I perched on the edge of the chair. “Is something wrong?”

She finally looked up. “You got married?”

“H-How did you—?”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, but—”

“Without telling anyone.”

I blinked. “I used my vacation days, cleared my workload—”

She leaned back, eyes sharp. “Henderson Marketing is a family, Suzanna. We celebrate together. Support each other. Share our lives.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, my personal life doesn’t affect my job. My reviews have been excellent.”

She laughed. “This isn’t about performance. This is about loyalty. And trust. I’m firing you.”

I froze. “Excuse me?”

“You deliberately excluded your coworkers from one of your life’s biggest milestones. That tells me all I need to know.”

“That’s… that’s personal. It was a small wedding.”

“You made that choice. And now I’m making mine. Here’s your final paycheck.”

I stared at the envelope.

“You can’t fire me for that. It’s illegal.”

“I’m firing you for failure to integrate with company culture. For being uncooperative. You created a hostile work environment by isolating yourself.”

“I was professional. Courteous. Always on time. Never late, never missed a deadline.”

“But you didn’t participate. You didn’t connect.”

“You mean I didn’t gossip in the break room? I didn’t give you access to my private life?”

“Your sob story about some stalker doesn’t justify your coldness.”

I stood. “No, it just explains why I no longer give people the kind of access that almost ruined me.”

“If necessary, security will escort you out.”

I walked out, numb. The office went silent.

“Well, well,” Macy called out. “Look who finally got what she deserved.”

I shoved my few things into a box—my fern plant, a framed photo of my late parents, my favorite mug.

“You know your problem?” Macy sneered. “You think you’re better than us. Like you’re too special to share your life.”

I turned. “No, Macy. My problem is that I trusted people once. And I paid for it. I thought privacy was a right—not a fireable offense.”

She scoffed. “Oh, please.”

“How did you even find out about my wedding?”

She smirked. “Your friend posted the cutest pics on Instagram. Took me five minutes.”

“You searched for my private life?”

“I was curious. Sue me.”

“No thanks. I’ll just leave—which is clearly what you all wanted.”

That evening, I sat at the kitchen table, numb. The termination letter lay in front of me.

“They fired you for getting married?” George asked, arms around me.

“For not inviting them.”

“You’re the most loyal person I know.”

“But what do I do now, George? We need my income.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Remember what you used to love? Making toys for your nieces? Sewing quilts for friends?”

“That’s not a job. That’s a hobby.”

“Says who? Maybe this is the universe telling you it’s time to bet on yourself.”

“It’s risky.”

“So is working for people who treat boundaries like betrayal.”

Three months later, I’m sitting in my home studio, surrounded by fabric and half-finished teddy bears. My small business—Suzanna’s Handmade Toys & Quilts—has five employees. And every one of them respects the simple truth: you don’t have to share your soul to do good work.

Last week, my best friend Sarah called, laughing.

“Henderson Marketing is trending—for firing employees who value privacy. It went viral.”

Apparently, Mrs. Wiggins’ brilliant policy had caught up with her. Three more people quit. Clients pulled contracts. The internet tore them apart.

“Good,” I said, smiling.

The right people don’t punish you for protecting yourself. They don’t demand proof of loyalty in the form of personal sacrifice. They earn your trust—and honor it.

And sometimes, losing the wrong job is exactly how you find the life you were always meant to build.