I’ve been a manager for almost six years. I always thought I was fair. Maybe a bit strict, but fair. Rules are rules, right? If I start making exceptions, where does it end?
That’s what I told myself when I fired Celia last week.
It was her third tardy this month.
Policy says three strikes—you’re out.
She didn’t argue. Just nodded, picked up her bag, and left.
But something about that silence should have told me something was off.
Later that afternoon, I overheard two coworkers whispering.
“Did you hear about Celia’s son?”
“Yeah… she’s been sleeping in her car with him.”
My stomach dropped.
I pulled one aside. “What do you mean, ‘sleeping in her car’?”
And then the whole picture unfolded.
Celia had been evicted a month ago.
No support from her ex.
No nearby family.
She was working double shifts, doing everything she could…
But shelters were full.
So she and her six-year-old son had been living in their car.
Those late mornings?
They weren’t because she was lazy or careless.
She was driving across town to a church that let them shower, so her son could go to school clean.
And I had fired her.
I had just made it worse.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The guilt sat heavy on my chest.
The next morning, I called her. No answer.
I texted. Nothing.
I drove to the last address on file—evicted.
I sat in my car, staring at my phone, wondering if I’d lost my chance to make things right.
But I couldn’t just leave it there.
I started calling around—shelters, food banks, churches—anywhere she might’ve gone. Most couldn’t help, but then one woman at a church downtown paused.
“She was here two nights ago. Picked up some food and blankets. That’s all I know.”
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
I drove downtown.
I walked the streets.
Checked every parking lot.
And just as I was about to give up, I saw it—
An old sedan, parked near a grocery store.
Fogged windows.
A small face peeking out from under a blanket in the back seat.
It was her son.
My heart clenched. I walked up slowly, gently knocked on the glass. Celia sat up in the front seat, startled… and then, her eyes met mine.
“I came to bring you your job back,” I said.
“But more than that—I came because I should have listened… and I want to help.”
Because sometimes, being a manager isn’t just about policies.
It’s about people.
And Celia didn’t need discipline—
She needed compassion.
Credit – original owner ( respect 🫡)
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