Chapter 1 -- The Day I Stayed Home
1138 Words
There was no excuse for not going to the office that Friday morning.
I had been pacing the small apartment since morning, my bare feet moving across the cold floor while my thoughts refused to settle.
My phone lay on the table.
I kept staring at it.
Calling in sick felt like failure.
But going to the office felt like punishment.
After several minutes of hesitation, I finally picked it up and dialed the number.
My voice trembled slightly as I explained that I wasn’t feeling well and needed sick leave.
There was silence on the other end.
I expected questions.
Suspicion.
A delay.
Instead—
“Approved.”
The call ended.
I lowered the phone slowly and stood still.
Relief washed over me — but it was fragile.
Temporary.
Like a pause before something heavier followed.
I never enjoyed going to the office, especially on weekends. Overtime meant additional pressure, unexpected assignments, and criticism disguised as performance feedback.
Tasks were often placed on my desk without explanation.
Deadlines appeared suddenly.
Mistakes — even when they weren’t mine — quietly found my name attached to them.
When projects succeeded, credit moved elsewhere.
When projects failed, accountability landed on me.
That pattern had become routine.
And the silence around it made it worse.
The message was clear without anyone saying it directly:
I was replaceable.
Or at least — treated as if I were.
Most of the pressure came from senior colleagues.
And mostly from Liliana.
Liliana Hart.
The office’s most visible, polished, and powerful HR Manager then Chief of Staff to the CEO
Officially, she managed recruitment, employee records, performance reviews, and company policies.
Unofficially, she controlled access to opportunity.
If someone wanted visibility with the CEO, they went through her.
If someone wanted promotion approval, it passed through her desk.
If someone offended her?
Their progress slowed.
She rarely raised her voice.
She didn’t need to.
A single look.
A pause.
A change in tone.
It was enough to remind people where power resided.
That morning, my phone vibrated again.
Her name flashed across the screen.
My chest tightened immediately.
I answered cautiously.
Before I could even greet her, she asked sharply where I was.
I told her I had taken sick leave.
There was a short pause.
Then her tone sharpened.
She told me my absence was inconvenient.
Then she went further.
She said my presence itself was unnecessary.
That my contribution to the company was minimal.
That people like me should understand their position and stop pretending to matter.
The words were not random.
They were intentional.
Measured.
Delivered to hurt.
“You think taking sick leave gives you permission to disappear?” she continued. “Do not test my patience.”
I stayed silent.
Not because I agreed.
But because interrupting her would only escalate the attack.
Then she added:
“I would not waste effort on someone like you — unless you were literally incapable of breathing.”
The statement hung in the air between us.
Cold.
Heavy.
She continued speaking.
“Prepare a document addressing how employees should respectfully address their superiors. Reflect on your behavior while writing it.”
The instruction was clear.
The intention behind it was clearer.
She wanted humiliation packaged as productivity.
The call ended.
Silence filled the apartment.
For several seconds, I remained frozen.
Then the impact hit.
Heat rushed to my face.
My hands trembled.
My throat tightened as I replayed her words.
“Unnecessary.”
“Minimal contribution.”
“Someone like you.”
Each phrase replayed like an accusation.
I pressed my palm against the wall to steady myself.
My breathing became uneven.
For a moment — just a moment — doubt slipped into my thoughts.
Was she right?
Was my background visible on my skin?
Was my education somehow inferior?
I had attended public schools.
Worked hard.
Earned a scholarship through performance and discipline.
Education had been my escape.
My achievement.
My proof of capability.
Yet in her eyes, it meant nothing.
It was proof — apparently — that I did not belong.
A quiet ache spread through my chest.
Not loud anger.
Not dramatic breakdown.
But something heavier.
Something internal.
Tears blurred my vision before I could stop them.
I quickly wiped them away.
Not because crying was weakness.
But because I refused to let her words define me.
After several minutes, I inhaled slowly.
This environment may judge me.
But it does not determine my future.
My phone buzzed again.
Another notification.
Subject line:
“Attendance Follow-Up — Urgent.”
My stomach tightened.
Sender: Human Resources Department.
And beneath it —
Liliana’s signature.
Before I could process it, another message appeared.
From a colleague.
“Liliana is asking why you left early.”
I stared at the screen.
I had not left early.
I had received approval for sick leave.
So why was she constructing a narrative that made it look like I abandoned my duties?
It was strategy.
If she framed my absence as misconduct instead of approved leave, she created leverage.
Power often worked like that.
Control the story.
Control perception.
Control consequences.
Anger replaced fear.
Slowly.
Quietly.
I clenched my jaw.
If this was the game she wanted to play, then I would not respond emotionally.
I would respond strategically.
I walked to my small desk and opened my laptop.
The document she ordered.
A file meant to discipline “staff who speak rudely to superiors.”
Instead of writing what she expected, I opened a blank page.
And I began documenting.
I wrote down:
— The exact words she used.
— The time of the call.
— The instruction she gave.
— The tone.
— The pressure behind it.
Then I added:
— Previous incidents of humiliation.
— Tasks assigned outside my role.
— Public remarks made to reduce my credibility.
I was not attacking her.
I was recording facts.
Proof.
Evidence.
If one day accountability became necessary, I would not rely on memory.
As I typed, my breathing steadied.
The helplessness I felt minutes earlier slowly transformed into clarity.
She wanted obedience.
I gave documentation.
She wanted silence.
I created records.
If she believed power meant control over perception — then I would understand power through preparation.
My fingers moved faster across the keyboard.
For the first time since waking up that morning, I felt something different.
Not fear.
Not humiliation.
But quiet determination.
Liliana believed she controlled access.
Controlled opportunity.
Controlled recognition.
Maybe she did — for now.
But control is temporary when information exists.
I saved the document.
Named it carefully.
Then leaned back in my chair.
If she thought this humiliation would weaken me…
She was wrong.
Because beneath the pressure, beneath the authority, beneath the insults —
A version of me was awakening.
And it was no longer content to remain invisible.
- Writer
