The retirement cake sat untouched in front of Martin.
Beside it, his daughter placed a framed certificate celebrating forty years at the company.
His wife, Ruth, stood holding a serving plate.
“Forty?” she said.
Martin looked at her.
“You started there forty-three years ago.”
“The official record says forty.”
Ruth set the plate down.
She remembered those first three years: midnight shifts, cash wages, Martin arriving home too tired to remove his boots.
When the company had nearly closed, he had stayed to help rebuild it.
Now those years had disappeared beneath a neat printed tribute.
Their daughter reached for the frame.
“Maybe it’s a mistake.”
Martin opened his wallet and took out an old employee card.
The date was clear.
Then he placed a photograph beside it. Two young men stood outside the original workshop—Martin and the founder.
“He promised we’d sort the paperwork later,” Martin said.
Ruth looked at him.
“And later kept moving.”
Their daughter asked whether those missing years affected his retirement benefits.
Martin didn’t know.
He had been too embarrassed to ask during the presentation.
For the first time that afternoon, Ruth sat down.
“You didn’t do anything embarrassing.”
The following week, they collected pay records, photographs, and letters. A former supervisor still had notebooks listing the early shifts.
It took months to untangle the records.
There were meetings, revised calculations, and an apology Martin had to read twice before believing it was addressed to him.
When the corrected certificate arrived, he left it in its envelope.
Instead, he framed the photograph of the original workshop.
Ruth found him hanging it in the hallway.
“What about the other one?”
“In the drawer.”
She looked at the younger man in the picture.
“You had terrible hair.”
“I had hair.”
That evening, their daughter brought a second cake.
This one said only:
ENJOY MONDAY.
Martin cut himself an enormous slice.
End of Narrative
