Beneath the Son-in-Law’s Shadow

Edgar stepped into the building of a company specializing in automotive engineering under the Clophidus group. He was here to start a job secured through the help of a close friend. After moving to this area, he had hoped to find work that was more convenient for him and his wife, Devyn. “Sir, Edgar Hurtubise has arrived,” announced a voice from the reception. “Come in.” As Edgar stepped into the office, he was met by the gaze of the manager, a slightly plump, bald man. The manager, Mr. Lambert, appraised him from head to toe before asking bluntly, “Do you have a disability certificate?” “What?” Edgar blinked in surprise, struggling to comprehend the abruptness of the question. “A disability without a certificate? No wonder you’re having trouble finding work. What is your relationship with Ms Horne?” Ms Horne? The name puzzled Edgar. For a fleeting moment, he considered stepping back outside to double-check the company name, wondering if he had inadvertently wandered into the wrong place. The manager leaned back in his chair, a smug expression on his face. “We’re a large corporation,” he continued. “Plenty of people dream of working here. Frankly, only someone who graduated from a top university is truly worthy of a position.” He glanced at Edgar with a sneer, clearly implying that Edgar was there only because of a connection. “What’s your educational background?” the manager asked, his tone dripping with condescension. “I dropped out in my second year,” Edgar replied, keeping his voice steady. “From where?” “Stanford.” The manager blinked, caught off guard. “What?” “Stanford University in California. School of Automotive.” Mr. Lambert, standing nearby, couldn’t hide his surprise. “And what did you do after that?” Edgar remained calm. “I worked as a kitchen interior salesman.” A stunned silence followed. The idea of someone leaving Stanford to sell kitchen interiors seemed absurd. The manager narrowed his eyes, clearly suspicious. “Show me your student ID.” Edgar frowned, genuinely confused. After many years of working, who would still have their student ID? It had probably been thrown out or recycled long ago. The manager, observing his hesitation, made a quick assumption. “No ID?” he asked, the skepticism clear in his voice. Studying at such a prestigious school, the manager thought, who wouldn’t hold onto something like that? His frustration mounted as he concluded Edgar was lying. With a sigh, he tossed a form across the desk. “Fill out your resume. Do you at least have your ID card on you?” “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring it,” Edgar admitted. The tension in the room thickened. Mr. Lambert, clearly annoyed, couldn’t contain his irritation. “No ID, and you’re here to work? What the hell is going on?” Edgar forced a smile, though it barely masked his frustration. No one told me to bring anything, he thought. His friend had assured him all he had to do was show up and everything would be fine. “Can I borrow a pen?” Edgar asked, trying to remain calm. Once handed one, he quickly scribbled on the form. The manager watched Edgar with barely concealed irritation, as he treated the expensive pen like a disposable one. Despite his frustration, he held his composure, taking the completed form and giving it a glance. His face darkened—there was nothing impressive listed. He sighed heavily, shaking his head in disappointment. Then, with a dismissive wave, he tossed the form to his secretary. “Sort him out,” he muttered. The assistant took Edgar’s form and asked, “Sir, which department should I assign him to?” The manager gave Edgar a dismissive glance, his eyes lingering on Edgar’s leg. “Put him in the warehouse,” he said coldly. There was no other option—someone like Edgar, with no standout skills and a physical disability, wouldn’t be fit to work in a more visible role. The company couldn’t afford the embarrassment. Forty-five minutes later, Edgar found himself sitting in a worn faux leather chair, surrounded by rows of neatly labeled shelves. A nameplate reading “Edgar” was now clipped to his shirt, marking him as a warehouse assistant. Relief washed over him; the job seemed simple enough—just checking inventory and logging it into the system. But then, a sharp pain jolted through his knee. Edgar winced and instinctively rolled up his pant leg, revealing a nasty bruise from the day before. He’d scraped it when a car ran a red light and slammed into his bike. He was lucky to have survived the accident. The small compensation he received had been just enough to buy his wife a birthday gift. The job was so slow, Edgar thought he could practically hatch eggs sitting there all day. His only colleague, Nova Ratliff, was an older woman sitting at a creaky desk, lazily playing solitaire on an outdated computer. She seemed to have even more free time than he did. Occasionally, she’d call out in a bored voice, “Edgar, check the inventory count, stock the shelves, and update the list.” And when someone came in with an order to pick up goods, she’d wave him over, saying, “Edgar, help them load up.” During a lull in the day, Edgar turned to Nova and asked, “How long have you been working here? Who got you the job?” Nova puffed up with pride. “Three years. My uncle’s friend’s aunt pulled some strings.” After a beat, she tilted her head and asked, “And you? How’d you manage to land this gig?” Edgar hesitated. “Uh… my friend works in the office.” “Which department?” she asked, clearly fishing for details. “Not as high up as your connection,” Edgar muttered, trying to deflect the conversation. Nova smirked, her lips curling with a faint hint of superiority. “That’s why you’re a level below me.” Edgar smiled awkwardly, swallowing his retort. He glanced down at his beaten-up work chair, its squeaky metal frame a constant reminder of his low status. Sick of its uncomfortable feel, he remembered a row of spare chairs stored in the back of the warehouse. Needing a small win, he went to investigate. Among the dusty relics, he found an imported Italian chair, tucked away and forgotten. What a waste, he thought. Edgar pulled it out, dusted it off, and sank into it, instantly feeling the difference. Later, after the tedious workday ended, Edgar headed to a jewelry store. Devyn's birthday was only a few days away, and despite his limited budget, he wanted to buy her something special. His wife, Devyn, was still a final-year university student, juggling the last stretch of her studies with a demanding hospital internship. Edgar had been living with her family since they married, only moving out recently to make her commute easier. Marrying into the Stewart family had changed his life in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He’d dropped out of college to work and support her education when her father lost his job. From the moment he became the son-in-law, it was clear that the Stewarts didn’t welcome him. Their disdain was palpable; in their eyes, he was an underachiever who wasn’t good enough for their daughter. But for Edgar, none of that mattered as much as Devyn’s love. That was the anchor he clung to, the one thing that made all the bashing, all the silent judgment, worth enduring. Taking a deep breath, he walked into the store.