A young woman named Emily worked in our home. She was twenty-nine, slightly chubby, and always dressed simply. Her mother needed a serious operation, and Emily worked from morning until night trying to earn enough money to pay for the medical expenses.
Lauren did not like her.
“Move faster,” she would often snap. “I’m not paying you to stroll around my house.”
Once, in front of several guests, she even said,
“Keep going like this and I’ll have to order you a new uniform. That one won’t fit you much longer.”
Emily said nothing.
She simply lowered her head.
I saw tears forming in her eyes.
That night, for the first time, I felt ashamed of my wife’s behavior.
But everything changed on a Tuesday night.
It was almost eleven when Emily knocked on the door of my study.
Normally, she would have gone home hours earlier.
But that night, her face was pale.
Her hands were trembling.
She stepped inside, closed the door, and quietly said,
“Mr. George… I don’t know how to tell you this. If I’m wrong, you can fire me right now. But if you don’t listen to me now, you may not wake up tomorrow.”
I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.
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