I asked for five urgent days off. My son was in the ICU, fighting for his life. My boss refused. He said, “You need to separate work from private life.”
The next morning, I smiled, grabbed a few hours of sleep, and showed up—pushing my son’s hospital bed through the office lobby. IVs, monitors, a startled nurse trailing behind. Security tried to stop me. I said, “Call Mr. Manson. He’ll want to see this.”
Conversations stopped. Keyboards went silent. I parked the bed outside my boss’s glass office. He froze, staring at me. I met his eyes and said, calmly:
“You said I need to separate work from private life. So here it is. Let’s work.”
I set my laptop on a side table, typing with my left hand, my right resting on my son’s arm. For twenty minutes, no one else got anything done. Then Mr. Manson finally spoke:
“Can we talk in my office?”
Inside, he stammered, “I didn’t expect… I mean… your son…”
“He’s critical,” I said. “The next 72 hours matter. I’m not choosing between my child and my job. I’ll sit here and deliver.”
By day two, I brought a relief nurse, set up a small privacy divider, and kept working. Colleagues began helping quietly. Someone brought lunch. A teammate pulled a chair next to mine and said, “If you’re here, I’m here.” By evening, half the team had pitched in without a word.
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