What type of HR would not investigate?
The injustice of it all made heat flush through my body. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to rein in my breathing while my mind raced with questions about what I would do next.
Bills.
Groceries.
The mortgage.
The baby.
Lucas.
My medical care.
Every responsibility I carried seemed to crowd inside my skull all at once.
Turning into the cul-de-sac, I parked in my driveway. I sat there in silence, staring at my red brick house with the blue garage door.
This house.
Even now, in the middle of my anger, looking at it, something deep steadied within me. This place had already accepted me when I had been uncertain of where I belonged.
I had accidentally turned into this neighbourhood when I was looking for a place to live in the village. I had been driving around aimlessly, unsure of where I would land, when I saw theFor Salesign planted outside this house.
According to the realtor, it had been on the market for a while. Built in 2011, it was smaller than the other houses on the street. The previous owners had been an elderly couple who decided to move into an old-age home together.
The moment I stepped inside, I fell in love with it and made an offer almost immediately.
A strange realization had washed over me when I saw the front door.
This was the same house from my vision.
The place I was meant to live in.
This was destined for me.
The painful decision of leaving my first home had been excruciating. Even now, thinking about it still made my chest throb. That apartment had been the first place that had truly felt like mine. It had held pieces of my independence, my hard work, my hope. Leaving it had felt like tearing myself away from a version of my life I had once believed would last.
But the fact that I did not owe the Evans family a single cent pleased me.
With a profit of $150,000 on my apartment, I knew that mortgaging it from Mr. Randall Evans had been the best decision I had ever made. He had insisted that the apartment had come with my job role as GM, but I did not want it simply bestowed on me.
I liked earning my way up.
I always had.
And maybe that was why losing this job burned as badly as it did. It was not just about the income. It was about beingdismissed, disrespected, and treated as though my experience meant nothing.
Now, sitting there in the car and looking at my house, I started the engine again. I pulled out of the driveway and headed toward the Tipsy Cow restaurant.
When I entered, I sat at the bar.
A shot of whisky would have been perfect.
Instead, I ordered a club soda through Jack.
The temptation to ask for something stronger flickered through me, but I ignored it. I needed clarity more than numbness, no matter how badly I wanted to dull the sharp edges of the day.
