I’ve been a manager for six years, always believing I was fair—strict, but fair. Rules are rules, and if I made exceptions, where would it end? That’s what I told myself when I fired Celia last week.
She was late for the third time that month. Company policy was clear: three strikes, you’re out. She didn’t argue, just left. That should’ve been my first clue something was wrong.
Later, I overheard coworkers whispering.
“Did you hear about Celia’s son?”
“Yeah. She’s been sleeping in her car with him.”
My stomach dropped.
I asked what they meant and learned Celia had been evicted, abandoned by her ex, and had no support. She was late because she had to drive across town to find a place where she and her son could shower before school.
I felt sick.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. She wasn’t late because she was careless—she was trying to survive. And I had just made things worse.
The next morning, I called and texted. No response.
So, I drove to her last known address. The apartment manager confirmed she’d been evicted weeks ago.
I started calling shelters and food banks. Most couldn’t share details, but a church volunteer hesitated when I mentioned her name.
“She was here two nights ago, picking up food and blankets.”
I drove downtown, searching. I was about to give up when I spotted an old sedan in a grocery store lot. Fogged-up windows. A small face peeking from under a blanket in the back seat.
My heart clenched.
I knocked. Celia sat up, wary. When she saw me, her face went blank.
“Celia, I’m so sorry. Please, let me help.”
She rolled the window down just a crack. “Help? Like you did last week?”
I deserved that.
“I didn’t know,” I admitted. “I should have asked. I was too focused on rules instead of seeing the person in front of me.”
She was silent. Her son curled up in the back.
“Come back to work,” I said. “Your job is still yours. And I want to do more—I have connections. My cousin manages an apartment complex with an open unit. No deposit needed. There are programs that can help. Let me make some calls.”
She hesitated. “Why?”
“Because I messed up. Because you don’t deserve this. And neither does he.”
She looked at her son, then back at me. Her shoulders trembled.
“Okay,” she whispered.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind. My cousin got her into an apartment. My company slightly increased her pay. I helped her access support programs. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it was a start.
One afternoon, she walked into my office. “Thank you. Not just for the job. For seeing me.”
“I should have seen you from the start,” I admitted.
She smiled, and this time, it reached her eyes.
That night, I sat in my car, thinking about how close I’d come to making an unforgivable mistake. Policies matter, but people aren’t just numbers on a spreadsheet. Everyone has a story, and sometimes, they just need someone to listen.
Kindness shouldn’t come with conditions. And sometimes, the right thing to do means breaking the rules.
