My last day of work was Friday. A month shy of 21 years, I went into the office for the last time. I had 17 performance reviews to write, 72 timesheets to approve, two exit interviews, an office to clean, a final lunch, and finally, turning in my badge and computer. It was going to be busy – no leaving early.

I hadn’t accounted for the fact that my last long day was a post-Covid Friday. Not traditionally a day where folks linger in the office. By 2:00, I was the only person in our wing and still had all the performance reviews to write, my office to clean, and my stuff to turn in. Luckily, one of the “pros” for leaving my job (on the pro/con list) was that things had gotten a little to people-y for this introvert. So while the afternoon and evening were a little lonely, it was nice to be able to get my packing and crying and writing and goodbyes to inanimate objects done without interruption.

At 7:00 the cleaning crew turned up. Once I was a person who knew the cleaning crew. I was in the office 4 days a week and worked a later shift then many of my colleagues. It wasn’t unusual for me to roll in at 9:00 and still be working at 6:00. Those people who empty your trash and recycling, vacuum the floors, dust, and clean the bathrooms? I knew them. Post-Covid? I didn’t really interact with the cleaning folks. On days I actually worked in the office, I’d take 2 hours of meetings from home, drive in, work 5 hours, get on the road before traffic got bad, and then finish my day off at home.

But this last week I finally met the cleaning crew on Wednesday, when I was in the office until 8:30 p.m. A guy in the red polo shirt, his and his team’s uniform, politely asked if he could empty my trash and recycling and I said “yes” and thanked him. Friday we had the same exchange. Then, shortly afterwards I took my computer up to my boss’s empty dark office, said a weepy goodbye to my dedicated laptop, and then went downstairs and took a last few pictures of my empty office. I picked up my backpack, my purse, the flowers my friend had given me, and my two funny bird pillows then headed out. Arms packed, I opened the first of three doors between me and my new life, and scared both myself and the cleaning guy. He was about to mop behind the door. We jumped and laughed and then he looked at my full arms, and held the door open for me. Next he raced ahead of me to open the final two doors. I teared up a little, and thanked him at each door. As I exited he said, “See you tomorrow.” Then he paused and I thought maybe he’d ask if I was coming back to work. Maybe he’d noticed how my colorful preschool like office had become duller during the week and he knew I was leaving. But instead he said, “No. See you Monday!” And I replied, “See you Monday” and gave him a small smile. I managed to unload my stuff and close the car door before I started sobbing. It was the perfect goodbye.

While my career had highlights with powerful people — meetings at the White House, virtual meetings with the Secretary of Energy and Transportation, awards, and accolades — that wasn’t the part of the job I loved. I loved the people. I loved helping my team of 24 find good work and help them through the challenges of simultaneously working and living a life. I loved the clients who were also human beings. I loved all the support folks who helped make work things work: HR, IT, Purchasing, Payroll, and yes, the cleaning crew. I tolerated leadership and upper management who valued hierarchy, and these upside-down priorities of mine are what made me want to leave my job.

One of my proudest moments at work happened several years ago, right as our current leadership came into power. Our lab had a sweet tradition of letting folks leave a few hours early before a holiday. It wasn’t announced in any formal way that I ever saw, but the afternoon before the 4th of July or Thanksgiving a manager or a director would walk around and say, “Why don’t you go ahead and take off.” We’d all pack up and enjoy a couple of special hours – getting our kids early, working out, going for happy hour, or picking up that last minute need before the grocery store got busy.

But leadership ended the tradition. Days before one Christmas, there was an announcement: there would be no early release on Christmas Eve. Staff were angry. People had planned flights and Christmas Eve dinner thinking they’d be able to go home at noon, or two at the latest. Of course, leadership said, staff could still take time off, but they had to use vacation time. The grumbles quieted. A tradition had ended. That’s how work goes.

I wasn’t thrilled, but had resigned myself to taking a few hours of leave for Christmas Eve. Working late one night before the holiday, I struck up a conversation with the lady who cleaned my office. My annoyance was a tragedy to her. The contract between the lab and the cleaning service stated if the lab was open normal hours, they couldn’t clean earlier, and she was going to miss Christmas Eve with her family. She confided that she probably wouldn’t be home until midnight, would miss church and her family’s celebration, and she was crushed. Cleaning staff doesn’t just get to decide to take vacation.

My annoyance bloomed into anger. Me, who despises talking with leadership, started sending emails explaining to my boss, my boss’s boss, and the head of the lab what they had done with their little maneuver. Sure all our staff was aggravated, fine, but their move was a full-on Grinchy-Scrooge for the cleaning folks. I not only told leadership what they’d done, but I ratted them out to all my colleagues.

My explosive protest found a champion among the directors, and the cleaning staff was allowed to start early on Christmas Eve. It didn’t cause a problem, because most of the lab folks were leaving early anyway. Friends on my floor had thought about the situation, and pulled together donations for our cleaning lady. There was also a card, where we all thanked her for everything she did for us. From that point on, there was a different relationship between the lab staff and her. I found out about her side job hand-sewing pet toys. (Now I know where those specialty “hand made” toys at pet stores come from.) She got to hear about my family and my mom who also enjoyed sewing. The lab leadership had made a mistake, but we had turned it into a chance to make and help a friend.

On my last moment of my last day of my twenty year career, there was no lab leadership to thank me. No final hobnobbing with other managers at a happy hour. When he opened the last door and the sweet red-shirted guy said, “See you Monday,” it didn’t just feel like a kindness. It felt like the perfect end to my work story.