He told me to separate work from private life while my son was dying. The words didn’t just sting; they detonated something I couldn’t put back. All night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every email, every “policy,” every time I’d swallowed my pride for a paycheck. By dawn, I knew exactly what I had to do. I would bring the one thing they refused to see right into their spotless office, let the hum of machines drown out their excuses, and make them look directly at the cost of their de… Continues…
I pushed my son’s hospital bed through the glass doors, the wheels rattling over the polished floor like an accusation. No one stopped me. The monitors beeped in sharp, merciless rhythm, filling the space where their practiced corporate phrases usually lived. I opened my laptop, logged in, and answered emails with my boy’s frail hand curled inside mine, his IV line trembling every time I moved. Eyes flicked toward us and away again, as if looking too long might burn. No one could pretend not to understand what they were seeing
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