I asked for five urgent days off. My son was in the ICU, critical. My boss said no. “You need to separate work from private life,” he told me. I smiled, slept a few hours, and the next morning, I pushed my son’s hospital bed through the office lobby. IVs, monitors, a nurse trailing silently. A security guard tried to stop me. I said, “Call Mr. Manson. He’ll want to see this.”
The office froze. Keyboards stopped clicking. Conversations died. I parked the bed in front of my boss’s glass office. He stood, stunned. I met his eyes. “You said I need to separate work from my private life,” I said. “So I brought both here. Let’s work.”
I set my laptop on a side table and typed with one hand, my right resting on my son’s arm. Nobody got much done. Twenty minutes later, Mr. Manson asked to speak privately. Inside, he admitted, “I didn’t expect this. Your son…” I explained, “He’s critical. I can’t choose between a meeting and my child. I’ll be here for both.”
Day one, the office was hushed, solemn. Day two, I arrived with a relief nurse, hung a divider, and kept working. Slowly, coworkers began helping—bringing lunch, offering support, quietly picking up tasks. By day three, HR stepped in with paid compassionate leave. I stayed. My son’s condition started improving; tiny movements gave hope.
On day four, a short clip of me typing with one hand while holding my son went viral: “This is what dedication looks like. But should it have to?” Messages poured in. Even a rival CEO reached out on LinkedIn: “We saw your story. Your strength, love, and leadership—this is what real leadership looks like. Full flexibility. Remote work. Double your salary. Interested?”
Continue reading on next page…