For nearly six years, I’ve been a manager, always convinced that I was fair—strict, yes, but fair. Rules are there for a reason, and if I start making exceptions, where would it end? That’s the reasoning I used when I let Celia go last week.
She was late again—her third time this month. Our policy was clear: three strikes, and you’re out. When I called her into my office, she didn’t argue. She just nodded quietly, grabbed her bag, and left without a word.
Later that day, I overheard two coworkers talking. “Did you hear about Celia’s son?” one of them asked. “Yeah,” the other responded. “She’s been sleeping in her car with him.”
That’s when I learned the truth. Celia had been evicted weeks ago. Her ex-husband was long gone—no child support, no family to turn to. She and her six-year-old son had been living in their car. The reason she’d been late? Every morning, she had to drive across town to a church where they could shower before taking him to school.
I was overwhelmed by guilt. I hadn’t just fired someone for being irresponsible—I had punished someone who was struggling to survive.
The next day, I tried calling her. No answer. I texted her. Nothing. Determined to make things right, I began searching—calling shelters, food banks, any place that might have helped her. Most places couldn’t share information, but one 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.”
Just when I was about to give up, I spotted an old sedan in a grocery store parking lot. The windows were fogged, and from beneath a blanket in the back seat, a small face peeked out.
I knocked softly on the window. A moment later, Celia sat up in the driver’s seat, her expression guarded. When she recognized me, her face went blank.
“I’m so sorry,” I said quickly. “Please, let me help.”
I offered her the job back, no conditions attached. More than that, I wanted to help her rebuild. My cousin managed an apartment complex, and there was a vacant unit. No deposit was needed, and 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 blur. My cousin got her into the apartment. The company approved a small pay increase for her, and I did everything 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, reflecting on how close I had 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, and sometimes all they need is someone to listen.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that kindness shouldn’t come with conditions. And sometimes, the right thing to do means breaking the rules.
