I got fired from my volunteer job today. 

After Ken died, I was so scared of everything — of dying, of losing our house, of losing my job, of losing my children to their own grief and loss — so scared. Sometimes, at night, I’d lie awake worrying about someone breaking in. I’d get up at 2AM and check the doors and windows. I’d re-lock the car after I got home, expecting that I’d go outside one day to an empty parking place. 

Two years ago, a year ago, in this situation, I might have shrugged and kept silent, constrained by my fear of more loss, especially after 23 years working in various capacities for the same program.

And after all these years, I was not simply a parent volunteer. I was — for the past eight years — the chair of the single biggest fundraising event at the school — the book fair. I had a lot invested emotionally and personally in the event, and now that I’m thinking of it, in the school as well. 

It’s early days for book fair planning but someone approached me with a rumor. I was surprised not to have been included but contacted the librarian to get the details and offer to help. 

Unfortunately, when we met and I learned the details, I realized that the librarian had decided to do something that I can’t support. So, yesterday I sent him a polite email, acknowledging my position of privilege as the chair and asking him to hear me out. He gave me a metaphorical head pat, told me that he was better informed than me, and warned me to back down. Instead, I made the choice to stand up politely for the kids. I told him, in writing, why I think what he is planning to do is detrimental to them. 

He fired me, via email.

When I saw my son this afternoon, I said, “I got fired.” He looked at me and said, “You got fired from the book fair. Good for you.” 

In your lives, I wish nothing more for you than that each of you has THAT kind of loving support.

Much love.