The Woman Who Folded Her Way to Glory

She folded t-shirts at first. Part-time, under fluorescent lights that flickered like indecisive lightning. The shirts were always the wrong size or the wrong color or folded the wrong way, but she smiled anyway. People asked her where the bathrooms were. Sometimes she told them. Sometimes she pointed vaguely, just for sport. It was the beginning of something, though no one—not even she—knew what.

In time, she went full-time. Gave tours with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for puppies or preachers. Her voice could bounce off stone and charm a bored teenager. She wrote press releases that made people care about sidewalk chalk festivals and the grand opening of the third best coffee shop in town. She remembered birthdays. Brought cake. Brought joy. She once stapled her blouse to a budget report and didn't notice until after the staff meeting. It became legend. She was that kind of legend.

And now—after 29 years, 10,713 days, 4 broken office chairs, 113 bad hair days, 7 crises averted by baked goods, and at least one unconfirmed Elvis sighting—she’s leaving. Retiring. Off to tend her garden or finally alphabetize the spice rack. Her coworkers tried not to cry, so they told jokes instead. They made a slideshow. Gave her flowers. She laughed louder than anyone. Then she turned off her office light, took one last look around, and whispered something only the t-shirts might understand: “Not bad for a girl who started with cotton and chaos.”