When my company said we could work from home, I imagined a peaceful life. No buses, no noisy office, no colleague asking me to check a spreadsheet during lunch. I pictured myself drinking coffee next to a sunny window and finishing work early.
Reality had other plans. My kitchen table became my office. At first it looked practical: the fridge was close, and I did not need to buy lunch. But the kitchen was also where everyone else wanted to be. My brother needed a snack during my morning meeting. My mother decided that a video call was the perfect moment to use the blender. Even the cat developed a professional interest in my keyboard.
The biggest problem was not the noise. It was the invisible line between work and everything else. In the office, leaving the building meant the day was over. At home, I could always answer one more email while waiting for the kettle. Soon I was eating lunch next to unfinished reports and checking messages after dinner. I had saved time on the commute, but I had lost the ability to stop.
So I made three rules. First, I close my laptop at six. Second, the table must be clear at dinner time. Third, nobody interrupts a meeting unless it is really urgent. The cat has refused to sign.
I would not go back to a daily commute. But a comfortable chair does not create a healthy working life. Sometimes the most important office equipment is a closed laptop.
Fiction note: All people, places and events in this text are fictional.