Bittersweet Memory

Silence at the Bulletin Board

Jieun Li—everyone called her Jamie at work—woke up at 5:47 AM on Monday.

She didn't need an alarm. Her internal clock had been set to this rhythm for five years now: wake up before six, make breakfast for her father, pack her mother's lunch for chemo, drop her little brother off at the community college on the way to work, be at her desk by 8:15.

Same routine, every single weekday.

The apartment was quiet when she got out of bed. The whole building, actually—this three-flat in Albany Park where they'd lived since she was sixteen, after her father's cleaning job at CPS had gotten them the cheapest rent in the neighborhood. The walls were thin, the heating erratic, but it was home.

Jamie padded into the kitchen in her socks, the linoleum cold under her feet. Chicago April mornings were still brutal, the kind of cold that seeped through your shoes and settled in your bones. She turned on the stove, filled the kettle, reached for the rice from the pantry.

Her father came out of his room ten minutes later, rubbing his eyes. He was fifty-eight now, his hair almost entirely gray, his hands gnarled from twenty years of scrubbing floors at public schools.

"Eomma still sleeping?" he asked in Korean, sitting down at the kitchen table.

"Yeah." Jamie set a bowl of hot rice in front of him, along with some kimchi and fried eggs. "She had a rough night. Nausea again."

Her father nodded silently, picking up his chopsticks. They didn't talk much in the mornings. What was there to say? The cancer, the medical bills, the fact that her mother's insurance only covered 80% of the chemo costs—they all lived with these things, heavy as wet concrete in the small apartment.

"You have that presentation today?" her father asked after a minute.

"Yeah." Jamie stirred her coffee, black, no sugar. She'd learned to drink it that way during all the late nights she'd pulled working on her proposal. "The Administrative Manager position. It's between me and... well, probably Liam Hamilton."

Her father paused mid-bite. "Hamilton? The chairman's son?"

"Yeah."

He put his chopsticks down, looking worried. "Jamie-ah..."

"I know, Appa." She tried to smile, to reassure him. "But I have to try. The raise would help with Eomma's bills. And Daniel's tuition for next semester."

Her father nodded, but his face was still troubled. "Just... be careful, okay? These people—they don't play fair."

"I know."

They ate in silence after that.

At 7:15, Jamie knocked on her mother's bedroom door.

"Eomma? I packed your lunch. The anti-nausea meds are in the front pocket, okay? Don't forget to take them before the treatment."

Her mother opened the door, thin, frail, her hair covered by a soft cotton scarf. She'd lost thirty pounds since the diagnosis six months ago, her face gaunt, her eyes too big for her face. But she still tried to smile.

"Good luck today, Jamie-ah." Her voice was hoarse. "You've worked so hard. You deserve it."

Jamie hugged her gently, careful not to squeeze too hard. "Thanks, Eomma. I'll call you during lunch, okay? Let me know how the treatment goes."

"Okay."

She grabbed her bag and her mother's lunch cooler, then knocked on her brother Daniel's door.

"Hey, wake up. I'm leaving in five minutes."

A groan from inside. "Five more minutes."

"No. You have an 8 AM class." She opened the door, leaned against the frame. "And don't even think about skipping. I'm not paying community college tuition so you can play video games in your room."

Daniel groaned again, sitting up. He was nineteen, still a kid in so many ways, still figuring out what he wanted to do with his life. Jamie sometimes wondered what it would have been like, to be that young and still have choices.

She'd been twenty-four when she'd started at Hamilton Group, fresh out of Northwestern with a degree in communications. She'd been so excited then, so proud—first person in her family to work for a real corporation, with real benefits and a real salary.

Five years later, she was still an administrative assistant.

Same desk, same title, same pay—well, almost same pay. The annual cost-of-living adjustments barely kept up with inflation.

But she was lucky, right? Lots of people would kill for a job at Hamilton Group, especially in this economy, especially someone like her—Korean immigrant, first-generation college graduate, no connections, no family money.

Lucky.

That's what she told herself, anyway, every time one of the white male analysts half her age got promoted over her. Every time her boss took credit for her work. Every time she stayed late to finish a project someone else had started, because "Jamie's the only one who gets it right."

Lucky.

Daniel stumbled out of his room fifteen minutes later, still yawning, hoodie pulled over his head. They walked out to her car together—a beat-up 2006 Honda Civic that she'd bought used three years ago, payments still going.

"You really think you have a shot?" Daniel asked as he got in the passenger seat.

"I don't know." Jamie turned the key, the engine sputtering for a second before catching. "I worked hard on the proposal. But... you know. Liam Hamilton. Nepotism's a hell of a drug."

Daniel snorted. "Understatement of the year."

They didn't talk much on the drive. Daniel slept most of the way, his head against the window. Jamie dropped him off at Harold Washington College, then headed downtown toward the Hamilton Building.

The traffic on Lake Shore Drive was terrible, as always. She inched along, watching the lake to her right, gray and choppy in the early morning light. The Hamilton Building came into view after twenty minutes, its glass facade reflecting the cloudy sky, impossibly tall, impossibly imposing.

Jamie parked in the employee garage—$180 a month deducted from her paycheck, worth every penny not to have to take the L in the winter—and walked toward the building.

Other employees streamed in around her, most of them younger than her, most of them white, most of them wearing suits that cost more than her car. She'd stopped feeling intimidated years ago, stopped comparing her thrifted blouses to their designer jackets, stopped feeling like she didn't belong.

Mostly stopped, anyway.

She swiped her ID badge at the security desk, got in the elevator, pressed 12. The Administrative Department was on the 12th floor, not too high up, not too close to the executives on the top floors. Safe, unthreatening, invisible.

Perfect for people like her.

Her desk was in the back corner, by the copy room. She liked it there—out of the way, less foot traffic, easier to just put her head down and work without being bothered.

She sat down, turned on her computer, checked her email. The usual stuff—meeting reminders, company-wide announcements, a few requests from people who needed things copied or scheduled or organized.

She was going through them when Sarah from HR stopped by her desk.

"Jamie! Hey, just reminding you—the presentations are at 10 AM in the 12th floor conference room. You're going first."

Jamie's stomach did a little flip. "Okay. Thanks, Sarah."

"No problem! And hey—good luck. I read your proposal. It was amazing." Sarah smiled, then walked away.

Jamie stared at her computer screen for a minute, her heart beating a little faster.

Sarah had read her proposal. Sarah had thought it was amazing.

That had to count for something, right?

She pulled up the proposal file on her computer, scrolling through it one more time. 78 pages, three appendices, five charts, two years worth of data she'd compiled in her spare time, late at night after her mother was asleep, on weekends when Daniel was at his friend's house.

Streamlining Administrative Processes for Enhanced Efficiency and Cost Reduction.

She'd basically rewritten the entire administrative department's workflow from scratch, identified $1.2 million in annual cost savings, proposed three new software implementations that would cut processing time by 40%, designed a training program for new hires that would reduce onboarding time by half.

She'd poured everything she had into this proposal. Every spare minute, every ounce of energy, every bit of knowledge she'd accumulated in five years of doing everyone else's job for them.

If this didn't get her the promotion, what would?

At 9:45, she printed out copies of the proposal for the panel, put them in a nice folder—something she'd bought specially for this occasion, $12 from Staples, a ridiculous amount for a folder, but she wanted everything to be perfect—grabbed her laptop, and headed to the conference room.

Her hands were shaking a little.

The conference room was already set up when she got there. A long table, six chairs behind it for the panel—her boss Mark, the head of HR, two VPs, the COO, and... Liam Hamilton.

Jamie's heart sank when she saw him.

He was sitting at the end of the table, looking impossibly young—only 28, two years younger than her—wearing a tailored suit that probably cost more than her annual salary, his dark hair perfectly styled, his expression calm, confident, like he already knew he had the job.

He looked up when she walked in, gave her a small smile and a nod.

She nodded back, her throat tight.

This was it, then. This was the fight.

Her, the Korean immigrant's daughter, five years of experience, a 78-page proposal, $1.2 million in identified savings.

Him, the chairman's son, two years in the engineering department, no administrative experience whatsoever.

Who do you think was going to win?

Jamie set up her laptop at the front of the room, connected it to the projector, took a few deep breaths.

Other people started filtering in—other employees who wanted to watch the presentations, mostly from the admin department. She saw a few of her coworkers give her encouraging smiles and thumbs-up.

That was nice, at least. She wasn't alone in this.

At 10 AM sharp, Mark stood up.

"Good morning, everyone. Thanks for coming. As you all know, we're interviewing for the new Administrative Manager position today. We have two excellent candidates—Jamie Li, who's been with us for five years as Senior Administrative Assistant, and Liam Hamilton, from the Engineering Department."

He paused, looked at his notes.

"Each candidate will give a 20-minute presentation, followed by 10 minutes of questions. Jamie, you're up first."

Jamie stood up, her legs feeling like Jell-O. She walked to the front of the room, turned to face the panel, took one more deep breath.

"Good morning. My name is Jamie Li, and for the last five years, I've been a Senior Administrative Assistant in this department."

She started talking.

Her voice shook a little at first, but after the first minute or so, she settled into it. She'd practiced this presentation so many times, in the shower, in the car on the way to work, late at night in her bedroom after everyone else was asleep, she could almost recite it in her sleep.

She talked about the inefficiencies she'd observed, the data she'd collected, the solutions she'd proposed. She walked them through the cost savings, the time savings, the morale improvements—all tangible, all measurable, all things she knew would work because she'd already tested most of them on a small scale.

Twenty minutes flew by.

When she finished, there was a moment of silence, then applause from the audience—her coworkers, clapping, some of them even cheering a little.

Jamie smiled, feeling light, feeling hopeful.

Then the questions started.

And they were good questions. Challenging, but fair. Questions about implementation timelines, about change management, about how she'd handle pushback from people who didn't want to change the way they'd always done things.

She answered them all, easily, confidently. She'd thought about all of this, prepared for every possible objection, every possible question.

When the 10 minutes were up, she felt good. She felt like she'd done everything she could. She felt like, just maybe, she actually had a shot.

Mark thanked her, then called Liam up.

Jamie sat down in the audience, watching.

Liam walked to the front of the room, calm, confident, completely at ease. He didn't have a prepared presentation, not really. He just talked.

Talked about his experience in the engineering department, about how he'd overseen administrative support for the new Lakeshore project, about how he understood what the department needed.

It was vague. It was general. It had no numbers, no data, no specific proposals.

But he was charming. He was well-spoken. He was the chairman's son.

When he finished, the panel asked him questions too. Softball questions, mostly. Things like "How would you motivate the team?" and "What's your management style?"

He answered them easily, smoothly, like he'd practiced them in the mirror that morning.

Jamie's hope started to deflate, little by little.

When it was over, Mark stood up again.

"Thank you both for excellent presentations. The panel will deliberate now, and we'll announce the decision by the end of the day."

Everyone filed out of the conference room. A few of Jamie's coworkers came up to her, told her she'd done great, that her presentation was amazing, that she definitely had the job.

She tried to smile, tried to believe them.

But she'd seen the way the panel had looked at Liam. The deference, the respect, the automatic assumption that he was the right choice.

She'd seen it a hundred times before.

The rest of the day was torture.

Jamie tried to work, tried to focus on her emails, on her projects, but she couldn't. Every time the phone rang, her heart jumped. Every time someone walked past her desk, she looked up, hoping it was Sarah from HR with the news.

Hours ticked by.

11 AM. Noon. 1 PM. 2 PM.

Nothing.

Her mother texted her at 2:30—Chemo done. Tired. Going home to sleep.—and Jamie texted back—Get some rest. I love you.—but she barely even registered what she was writing.

3 PM. 3:30. 4.

Still nothing.

She was starting to think they'd announce it on Tuesday, that they were going to make her wait the whole weekend, when Sarah from HR walked past her desk at 4:47.

"Hey, Jamie," she said, not stopping, her voice tight, "they posted the announcement on the bulletin board by the elevators."

That was it. No congratulations, no commiseration, just that.

Jamie's heart sank.

If she'd gotten the job, Sarah would have told her directly. Would have come to her desk, smiled, said "Congratulations."

She wouldn't have just walked past and told her to check the bulletin board.

Jamie sat there for a minute, frozen. Her hands were shaking. Her breath was coming fast.

Then she stood up.

She had to see it. Had to know for sure.

She walked toward the elevators, her legs heavy, like she was walking through water. Other people were walking toward the bulletin board too, whispering, glancing at her, their expressions sympathetic.

That was all the confirmation she needed, really.

But she kept walking.

The bulletin board was by the main elevators, big, wooden, covered with company announcements, flyers for the company picnic, health insurance reminders.

And there, in the middle, fresh off the printer, still crisp:

ANNOUNCEMENT

Effective immediately, Liam Hamilton has been appointed Administrative Manager of the 12th Floor Administrative Department.

Please join us in congratulating Liam on his new role.

That was it.

Four sentences. No mention of her. No "thank you to all candidates." Nothing.

Just that.

Jamie stood there, staring at the piece of paper, for a long time. People walked past her, some glancing at her, some pretending not to see her. The world kept turning, kept moving, like her whole world hadn't just crashed down around her.

She'd worked five years for this. Five years of staying late, five years of doing other people's work, five years of biting her tongue when her boss took credit for her ideas, five years of smiling and nodding and being the good little Asian girl who didn't make trouble.

Five years.

And in the end, it hadn't mattered at all.

Because he was Liam Hamilton, son of the chairman, and she was just Jamie Li, daughter of a school janitor.

Someone touched her arm.

Jamie looked over. It was Maria from Accounts Payable, another one of the invisible people, another woman of color who'd been at the company for years and never promoted.

"Jamie," she said quietly, "I'm so sorry."

Jamie just nodded. She couldn't speak. If she opened her mouth, she knew she'd cry, and she wasn't going to cry here, not in front of all these people, not where they could see her break.

She turned and walked back to her desk.

She sat down, turned her back to the room, stared at her computer screen.

Her 78-page proposal was still open, the words blurring together in front of her eyes.

$1.2 million in annual cost savings. 40% reduction in processing time. 50% faster onboarding for new hires.

All of it, for nothing.

She opened a new email, started writing her resignation letter.

Dear Mark,

I am writing to inform you of my decision to resign from my position as Senior Administrative Assistant...

She got three sentences in, then stopped.

What was she going to do? Quit? And then what?

Her mother's chemo bills. Daniel's tuition. The car payment. The rent.

She couldn't quit. She couldn't afford to.

She was trapped.

Jamie deleted the resignation letter, closed her email, pulled up the spreadsheet she'd been working on before the presentation.

She put her head down and went back to work.

No one said anything to her for the rest of the day. Not her boss, not HR, not Liam Hamilton. No one.

At 5:30, everyone started packing up to leave. Jamie stayed at her desk, pretending to work, waiting for the floor to clear out. She didn't want to have to talk to anyone, didn't want to have to accept anyone's pity.

By 6:15, the floor was almost empty.

Jamie stood up, grabbed her bag, turned off her computer.

She was walking toward the elevators when she saw Liam Hamilton standing by the bulletin board, looking at the announcement.

He turned when he heard her footsteps.

Their eyes met.

Jamie looked away, kept walking.

"Jamie."

She stopped.

He walked over to her. He looked... guilty, almost.

"Jamie, I just wanted to say—your presentation was incredible. I read your proposal, by the way. All of it. The stuff you came up with... it's brilliant. Really."

She looked at him, her throat tight. "Thanks."

"I mean it." He paused, ran a hand through his hair. "And I... I know this wasn't fair. The way it went down. I told my dad—"

"Don't." Jamie's voice was sharp, sharper than she'd intended. "Just... don't. Okay? You got the job. Congratulations. Enjoy it."

She turned and walked away, before he could say anything else, before she could say something she'd regret, before she could cry in front of the chairman's son.

She got in the elevator, pressed G for garage, stood there, staring at her reflection in the metal doors.

She looked tired. So tired.

The elevator reached the garage, the doors opened. Jamie walked to her car, got in, turned the key.

The engine sputtered, then caught.

She sat there for a minute, hands on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield.

The garage was almost empty. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a cold, sterile light over everything.

Jamie took a deep breath. Then another.

She was okay. She was fine. She still had a job. She still had a paycheck. Her mother still had insurance. Daniel could still go to school.

Everything was fine.

She put the car in drive, pulled out of the parking spot.

On the way home, she stopped at the grocery store. Her mother was craving pickled r****h, that Korean kind she liked, the one they sold at the H Mart on Lawrence. Jamie went in, grabbed a jar, picked up some extra kimchi, some rice cakes, anything to make her mother feel better.

She paid, got back in the car, kept driving.