After Rosa left, I searched through my old emails.
My application confirmation was there.
Nothing afterward.
I found the number from the original job posting and called.
After I explained who I was, the woman searched my file.
“Yes, I have your application.”
“The position was filled, wasn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Did I make it past the first round?”
There was a pause.
“You were invited to the final interview, Mallory.”
I closed my eyes.
“I never received the invitation.”
“We emailed the address on your application and mailed a formal copy.”
“Did I decline?”
“No. We called the home number listed on your application to follow up.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Who answered?”
“Your husband. He told our recruiter you weren’t continuing.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“That you were under a lot of stress and didn’t want a more demanding role.”
I stared at the torn pieces of the letter.
“Was I really being considered?”
“Very seriously.”
I thanked her and ended the call.
The job was gone.
But losing the position wasn’t what hurt most.
What hurt was remembering Ethan comforting me afterward.
He had watched me decide I wasn’t good enough.
And he had helped me believe it.
That evening, Ethan came home carrying soup.
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“Beautiful, but medically terrible.”
Normally, I would have laughed.
Instead, I watched the man I had trusted for eleven years heat my dinner.
“Someone mentioned a leadership workshop next month,” I said casually.
He glanced up.
“For you?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s great.”
I waited.
Then he added, “Although next month might be rough, Mal. You’ve been exhausted. I’d rather you book a spa weekend.”
“It’s one weekend.”
“I’m not saying don’t go. I just worry you say yes because you’re afraid to disappoint people.”
Before that afternoon, I would have heard concern.
Now I heard something else.
“You think I shouldn’t go.”
“I think you deserve rest.”
He came over and touched my shoulder.
“I’m on your side, remember?”
“Right.”
