Jake felt the room tilt slightly. "18 months ago," Laura said softly, "you should have been promoted." He didn't answer. "Actually, it probably should have happened earlier." Jake continued staring at the papers.
A strange buzzing filled his ears. Memories surfaced one after another. Sophie standing on stage at her school play while he worked overtime. The birthday party he missed because David said the shift couldn't be covered. The weekends.
The holidays. The exhaustion. All the times he had looked in the mirror and told himself he just needed to work harder. Be better. Prove himself.
Every sacrifice suddenly looked different. Every missed moment suddenly carried a new meaning. Laura watched the realization unfold across his face. Jake He held up a hand. She stopped talking.
The kitchen clock ticked loudly. 1 second. Then another. Then another. Finally, Jake spoke.
How long? His voice barely rose above a whisper. Laura knew exactly what he meant. At least 2 years. Jake looked down.
2 years. 730 days. 24 months of believing a lie. 24 months of believing he wasn't enough. 24 months of watching his daughter grow up from a distance because he thought he had no choice.
Something inside him cracked. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Quietly. Like ice breaking beneath deep water.
He reached for a paper near the bottom of the pile. A school permission slip. Sophie's school play. The one he had missed. The date stared back at him.
He remembered David's voice perfectly. Mandatory overtime. No exceptions. Jake's vision blurred for a second. He set the paper down before Laura could see.
But she already had. The guilt on her face deepened. I'm prepared to issue full back compensation. She said carefully. Every dollar you should have earned, every raise, every promotion adjustment, everything.
Jake laughed softly. It wasn't a happy sound. You think this is about money? Laura didn't answer. Do you know what my daughter asked me last week?
Jake continued. She asked if I'd be home before she went to sleep. He stared at the table. Not because she wanted to spend time with me, because she wasn't sure anymore. Laura looked away.
For the first time since arriving, she seemed unable to hold eye contact. Jake leaned back in his chair. The wrench finally slipped from his hand and landed on the table with a dull metallic thud. He suddenly felt older than 35, older than exhaustion itself. Laura inhaled slowly.
There's something else. Jake looked up. The seriousness in her voice sent another chill through him. She pushed one final document across the table. What?