When I was 17, my world fell apart. My dad walked out on my mom and me, leaving us for a younger woman. But it wasn’t just the abandonment that hurt — he drained our finances, skipped out on house payments, and left us stranded without a penny to our name.
We were out on the street, and he didn’t even bat an eye. I swore then that I would get even someday. I would make him regret everything.
So, I threw myself into building a future. I sacrificed everything — put myself through college, worked late nights, climbed the ranks in my career. And by 32, I had become the head of a department in a well-known firm. I was secure. Successful.
Then one ordinary day, everything changed.
I walked into work, like any other day, only to see him — standing in the lobby. It was a strange, cold moment. There he was, the man who had abandoned me, looking nothing like the confident, carefree figure who had left us years ago. His shoulders slumped, his hair graying unevenly, his face marked by years of exhaustion and regret.
He didn’t recognize me at first. But I recognized him, and I felt something stir deep within me. But it wasn’t sadness. It was something colder — something I couldn’t quite define.
I approached him. “Can I help you?” My voice was steady, though I wasn’t sure why.
He looked up, blinking in shock. “I’m here for the — uh — the job interview.”
I already knew. I had seen his name on the list earlier that week, and when I saw it, I’d chuckled at the irony. But now, standing face-to-face with him, I didn’t feel victorious. I felt conflicted.
I nodded toward the meeting room. “Right this way.”
I let my assistant conduct the interview, while I observed. His résumé was unimpressive, his career after leaving us was a series of short-term sales jobs, and his finances were in shambles — the woman he’d left us for had drained him, too.
He was desperate.
The interview ended with the usual final question: “Why do you want to work for this company?”
His eyes flickered toward me. “I need a fresh start.”
A fresh start. How easy it must be to ask for one, after ruining the lives of others.
The interview wrapped up, and as my assistant left to compile the reports, he lingered. Finally, he spoke. “You’re doing well for yourself.”
I crossed my arms, fighting the urge to lash out. “Unlike you?”
His face darkened, but he sighed. “I guess I deserve that.”
I wanted to ask him why — why he left, why he never looked back, why he thought he could walk into my company and expect everything to be fine. But I already knew the answer: some people are just selfish.
I had the power to make the final hiring decision. My assistant asked if we should consider him.
“I want to think about it,” I replied.
For days, I wrestled with the decision. Was I still that angry, vengeful 17-year-old? Or had I truly grown? Had I moved on, or was this my chance to get even?
Finally, I made my choice.
I called him in. He looked smaller than I remembered, defeated even.
“I reviewed your application,” I began. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it — you’re underqualified for the position. There are younger, more experienced candidates.”
His lips pressed together. He knew what was coming. “I understand.”
“But,” I continued, “I’m offering you an entry-level position. The pay isn’t great, but it’s stable work. If you’re serious about a fresh start, you’ll take it.”
His eyes widened. “You’re… giving me a job?”
“Yes. But I want to be clear: I’m not doing this out of kindness. I’m doing this because I believe in fairness. You’re not entitled to my help, and this doesn’t erase the past. But I’ll give you what you never gave us — a chance.”
Tears welled in his eyes. He nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
As he walked out, something shifted inside me. Not forgiveness, but a sense of release.
Karma had already done its work. I didn’t need revenge. I needed peace.
And for the first time in years, I had found it.
