We're Like a Family Here

On my first day,

they say it as a welcome:

"we're like a family here."

Gentle enough to mistake for kindness,

firm enough to make me nod without thinking.

There's a tour of the building,

a showing of exits and expectations.

I'm given a badge to wear

so they will remember my name.

One supervisor explains the pace

without calling it pressure.

Another explains the pressure

without calling it demands.

He laughs, promises I'll get used to it.

My name is scheduled.

Slots of time written neatly

into usefulness.

I learn that absence is noticed

more than presence is appreciated.

Work language is trained to comply.

"Busy" becomes "lucky to have a job."

"Overworked" becomes "committed."

"Uncredited" becomes "team player."

"Replacement" is never spoken out loud

but voices of past employees echo.

We're like a family here

so when someone leaves for an

"opportunity elsewhere"--

as if geography is the problem

and not burnout--

we celebrate with sheet cake.

Then their desk is cleared

as if no one ever occupied it.

There is a meeting about morale.

We're like a family here

so we're told to celebrate small wins

like surviving Monday.

Like Casual Fridays.

Time begins to blur

into a single shift

that pauses only

when I'm not being watched

closely enough to be productive.

A new hire arrives.

They are given the same

"we're like a family here" welcome,

the same tour,

the same illusion of belonging.

One day,

I hear myself saying it:

"We're like a family here."

It sounds as sincere as a slogan.

I cry in my car on the drive home

because families are private about pain

and I understand

that families

are not always where you belong.

Sometimes they are

just where you stay

until you learn

you're allowed to leave.