I’ve been a manager for almost six years, and I always thought I was fair. Strict, maybe, but fair.
Rules are rules, and if I make exceptions for one person, then where does it stop? That’s what I told myself when I fired Celia last week.
She was late again—third time this month. Our policy is clear: three strikes, you’re out. She barely said a word when I called her into my office.
Just nodded, grabbed her bag, and left without arguing. That should’ve been the first sign something was off.
Later that afternoon, I overheard two coworkers whispering. “Did you hear about Celia’s son?” one asked. “Yeah,” the other sighed. “Poor kid. She’s been sleeping in her car with him.”
