The Silence of the Office Bathroom Stall Where I Cry into a Single Sheet of Rough Paper Towel

Dear Delyara, I had to excuse myself from a marketing meeting today because a colleague casually mentioned the name of the town where my father used to live, and my throat instantly closed up so tight I couldn't swallow. I ran to the disabled toilet, locked the heavy door, and sat on the closed lid with my face in my hands, sobbing silently so the people at the sinks wouldn't hear me through the gap. I didn't even have a tissue; I had to use one of those rough, brown paper towels from the dispenser that scratched my skin. My father died eight months ago, but the corporate world doesn't have a code for ongoing grief. You get five days of compassionate leave, and then you are expected to return to your desk and meet your targets as if your world hadn't completely split open. I am walking through my days with a massive, jagged hole in my chest, pretending to care about spreadsheets while my soul is entirely on its knees.