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.”
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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.”
She smiled, and for the first time, it truly reached her eyes.
That night, I sat in my car, thinking about how close I’d come to making an unforgivable mistake. It’s easy to get caught up in rules and forget that people aren’t just names on a spreadsheet. Everyone has a story. Sometimes, all they need is someone to listen.
If I’ve learned anything from this, it’s that kindness shouldn’t come with conditions. And sometimes, the right thing to do means breaking the rules.
