It was Dale.
I stepped outside just as he lifted a heavy bucket from the truck.
Then he tipped it over.
Thousands of pennies spilled across the gravel.
He emptied another bucket.
And another.
By the time he finished, a mountain of copper coins covered my driveway.
The smell of motor oil filled the air.
Dale had deliberately coated the pennies in dirty oil.
My eight-year-old son, Noah, appeared at the doorway.
His five-year-old sister, Lily, stood behind him holding her stuffed rabbit.
Neither child said anything.
Dale pulled out my final pay stub and taped it to a bucket.
“There’s your money,” he said coldly.
“Every cent.”
Then he climbed back into his truck and drove away.
I stood staring at the mess.
Six years of loyalty.
Six years of hard work.
And this was how he chose to say goodbye.
That evening, I called my husband.
Jake was working away from home, hauling logs for a trucking company.
