The First Day
1371 Words
I messed up the coffee three times.
The first time—81 degrees.
He took one sip, said, “Okay,” but I saw his jaw tighten.
The second time—79 degrees.
He didn't say anything.
He simply poured it into the sink himself.
The third time, I got it right.
Exactly 80 degrees.
Black.
Two sugars.
He took the cup from me, drank without looking at me, and said,
“Better.”
One word.
Better.
I felt like I had already won the R15,000.
The rest of the morning was phones.
His phone never stopped ringing.
“Mr. Stuurman’s office.”
“Mr. Stuurman is in a meeting.”
“Mr. Stuurman is in a meeting.”
“Mr. Stuurman is in a meeting.”
Even when he wasn't in a meeting.
Sometimes he was simply standing at the window, staring down at Johannesburg like he wanted to throw the entire city away.
At ten, his mother called again.
“Mevrou Stuurman, he's in a meeting.”
There was a pause.
Then her voice hardened.
“Tell him his father built that company with his hands, and now he lives in it like a ghost. Tell him that.”
I didn't tell him exactly that.
I simply said, “She says it's important, Pieter.”
He didn't even turn around.
“Everything is important to my mother.”
He didn't call her back.
At eleven, a man came upstairs.
Tall. Afrikaans. Wearing a suit almost as expensive as Pieter's, but somehow managing to look cheaper in it.
He looked at me and smiled.
It was the kind of smile men in Sunnyside gave new girls when they thought they were entitled to their attention.
“You must be the new one.”
He held out his hand.
“Henk. Pieter's cousin.”
I shook it.
“You survived the morning?” he asked. “That's a record.”
Before I could answer, Pieter's office door opened.
“Henk.”
Henk turned.
“Piet.”
“Out.”
Henk laughed.
“Come on, Piet. I'm just welcoming—”
“Out of my floor.”
Pieter didn't raise his voice.
He didn't need to.
His voice had that same winter in it.
Henk lifted both hands.
“Okay, okay.”
He started walking away, then stopped.
“Still the same since Marietjie, hey?”
Everything changed.
Pieter's face went blank.
Not angry.
Blank.
Like someone had switched off a light inside him.
“Get out.”
Henk left.
Pieter remained where he was.
For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at nothing.
“Pieter?” I whispered.
His eyes moved to me.
“Make another coffee.”
I did.
80 degrees.
Black.
Two sugars.
He took it and went back into his office.
The door closed.
For the next hour, he didn't come out.
No typing.
No phone calls.
Nothing.
Just silence.
At twelve, Joseph came upstairs carrying lunch.
Two plates.
He placed one on my desk.
“Eat,” he said quietly.
I looked toward Pieter's closed door.
“He won't eat,” Joseph continued. “He never eats lunch.”
“Why?”
Joseph hesitated.
“Not since she died.”
“His wife?”
He nodded.
“Marietjie Stuurman.”
He looked toward the closed office.
“She used to bring him lunch every day. Even when they fought. She'd come at twelve. Every single day. With that same little lunch bag.”
His voice trailed off.
Then he shook his head.
“Anyway. Eat. You need energy if you want to survive this week.”
He walked away.
I sat alone on the fifty-eighth floor, eating fancy chicken I couldn't even name, while my boss sat behind a glass wall, refusing to eat because his wife used to bring him lunch.
And now she was gone.
At one, Pieter called me into his office.
“File these.”
He dropped a pile of papers onto my desk.
The stack was almost as tall as my son's height.
I started filing.
His office was so clean it didn't look like anyone actually lived there.
One desk.
One chair.
One window.
Nothing personal.
Nothing warm.
And then I saw it.
On the corner of his desk, half-hidden beneath a file, was a photo frame.
Face down.
I didn't mean to touch it.
I swear I didn't.
But my sleeve caught the edge.
The frame fell.
I picked it up quickly.
And there she was.
Marietjie.
Blonde hair.
Big smile.
Blue dress.
Laughing.
Her arm wrapped around Pieter.
And Pieter was laughing too.
Really laughing.
Not the cold, empty expression I'd seen all morning.
This was different.
No beard.
Younger.
Happy.
He looked...
Human.
“You touched my desk.”
His voice came from behind me.
I turned so quickly the frame almost slipped from my hands.
“I'm sorry. It fell. I—”
He took the frame from me.
Gently.
So gently, it made my chest tighten.
He stared at the photograph for a long time.
“She hated this photo,” he said quietly.
I said nothing.
“She said her eyes were closed.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“I told her she looked beautiful anyway.”
He placed the frame back on his desk.
Face down.
Like he couldn't bear to look at it.
But couldn't bear to put it away either.
Then he looked at me.
“Do you have a photo of your son on your phone?”
I froze.
“What?”
“Your son.”
His eyes stayed on mine.
“Wisdom. Do you have a photo of him?”
My blood went cold.
“Y-yes.”
“Can I see it?”
My fingers tightened around my phone.
Why?
Why did he want to see my son?
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
I swallowed.
“I mean... my phone is dead.”
His eyes dropped to my hands.
They were shaking.
Then he looked at the rose.
Then back at me.
“Okay.”
He didn't push.
He walked back to his desk and sat down.
“Wisdom is lucky.”
I looked at him.
He picked up a file.
“My father always told me something.”
He paused.
“A mother who fights like that for her child...”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“Her son will be strong.”
I couldn't breathe properly.
He looked down at the file again.
“You can go home at six.”
I nodded.
“Joseph will take you.”
Another pause.
“Tomorrow. 4:30 again.”
I nodded once more.
Then I walked out.
Almost ran.
At six, Joseph drove me back to Sunnyside.
Wisdom was waiting at the gate with Mama Dineo.
The moment he saw the black car, his eyes widened.
“Mama! Big car!”
I laughed and picked him up.
He smelled like Mama Dineo's cooking.
“Mama,” he said, wrapping his arms around my neck. “Did you bring cake?”
I smiled.
I had taken the fancy chicken from lunch.
Wrapped it carefully in foil.
Hidden it in my bag.
I pulled it out.
“Not cake.”
His face fell.
“But chicken.”
His eyes lit up.
“From where?”
“Sandton.”
He clapped his hands.
That night, after Wisdom fell asleep, I sat on the edge of his bed.
The room was dark except for the light from my phone.
I opened my gallery.
One photo.
Wisdom laughing.
Those grey eyes looking straight at the camera.
The little brown star-shaped birthmark on his left shoulder.
I touched the screen gently.
My throat tightened.
“Some things are better left buried,” I whispered.
Wisdom shifted in his sleep.
I looked toward the door.
Then back at him.
The man upstairs didn't know.
He couldn't know.
Not now.
Not ever.
Because Pieter Stuurman wasn't just my boss.
He was the one person in this world who could change everything.
I leaned down and kissed my son's forehead.
“Sleep, my baby.”
And silently, I made myself the same promise I'd been making for six years.
He would never know.
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