I’ve been a manager for nearly six years, always believing I was fair—strict, perhaps, but fair.
Rules exist for a reason, and if I start making exceptions, where do I draw the line? That’s what I told myself when I let Celia go last week.
She had been late again—her third time this month. Our policy is clear: three strikes, and you’re out. When I called her into my office, she didn’t argue. She just nodded, grabbed her bag, and left.
Later that day, I overheard two coworkers talking. “Did you hear about Celia’s son?” one asked. “Yeah,” the other replied. “She’s been sleeping in her car with him.”
That’s when I learned the truth. Celia had been evicted weeks ago. Her ex was gone—no child support, no family to turn to. She and her six-year-old had been living in their car. The reason she was late? She had to drive across town each morning to a church where they could shower before she took him to school.
I couldn’t shake the guilt. I hadn’t fired someone irresponsible—I had punished someone who was struggling to survive.
The following day, I tried calling her. No answer. I texted. Nothing.
Determined to make things right, I started searching—calling shelters, food banks, anywhere she might have gone. Most couldn’t share information, but a woman at a downtown church hesitated when I mentioned Celia’s name.
“She was here two nights ago,” she said. “Picked up some food and blankets.”
I was about to give up when I spotted an old sedan in a grocery store parking lot. The windows were fogged up, and from beneath a blanket in the back seat, a small face peeked out.
I knocked gently. A moment later, Celia sat up in the driver’s seat, her expression wary. When she recognized me, her face went blank.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurted out. “Please, let me help.”
I offered her a job back—no conditions. More than that, I wanted to help her rebuild. My cousin managed an apartment complex and had a vacant unit. I could get her in, no deposit was needed. I knew of programs that could help with food and childcare.
She glanced at her son, then back at me. Her shoulders trembled.
“Okay,” she whispered.
The weeks that followed were a whirlwind. My cousin got her into the apartment. My company approved a small pay increase, and I pulled every string I could to connect her with assistance programs. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it was a start.
One afternoon, she walked into my office. “I just wanted to say thank you,” she said. “Not just for the job—for seeing me.”