The sound was the first thing I noticed. I was washing Rosie\u2019s sippy cup in our little rented farmhouse outside Merrill, Wisconsin, when I heard a strange metallic rushing noise outside. I stepped onto the porch and saw Curtis Wendt, my boss of seven years, standing beside his rusty red pickup. He was emptying an orange bucket filled with thousands of pennies directly onto my driveway. Six more buckets waited in his truck. Every coin was coated in thick, black motor oil. My seven-year-old son, Eli, and four-year-old daughter, Rosie, stood behind me holding hands, watching silently. Curtis emptied the final bucket, then tucked my final pay stub beneath its handle. He said the $872 was all there, every cent, and told me to count it myself. Then he climbed into his truck and drove away, leaving 87,200 filthy pennies scattered across our gravel driveway.<\/p>\n
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I had worked at Wendt\u2019s Auto Parts since separating from the children’s father. I started knowing nothing about cars, but eventually became the employee farmers requested by name. When the local farmers\u2019 co-op offered me a better-paying inventory manager position with health insurance for my children and me, I accepted. I gave Curtis two weeks\u2019 notice, trained my replacement, and organized everything before leaving. He never spoke to me again. He promised to deliver my final paycheck personally. Now I understood what he had planned.<\/p>\n
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