My father left when I was six years old. One day, he was there—laughing, playing, promising me the world—and the next, he was gone. He left my mother and me penniless, running off with a woman barely older than a teenager. My mother never stopped loving him, though. She clung to the hope that he’d come back, that we could be a family again.
But he didn’t.
For years, I watched her struggle to make ends meet while he built a new life elsewhere, pretending we didn’t exist. I grew up hating him for what he did, not just to me but to the woman who still cried herself to sleep at night because of him.
That hatred became fuel. I worked tirelessly, channeling my anger into building a life for myself. I excelled in school, got scholarships, and climbed the corporate ladder. By my late twenties, I was the youngest department head in a major company.
Then, one ordinary Tuesday morning, the impossible happened. I was reviewing resumes for a new hire when my assistant knocked on the door.
“Your 10 a.m. interview is here,” she said.
I nodded and glanced at the name on the schedule. My heart stopped. **Richard Carter.**
It couldn’t be.
But when the door opened, there he was—the man I hadn’t seen in over two decades. He looked older, wearier, with streaks of gray in his hair, but it was him. My father.
His face froze as he saw me sitting behind the desk. “Sophia?” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“Yes,” I replied coldly. “Please, have a seat.”
He sat down slowly, visibly uncomfortable. I couldn’t blame him.
“I… I didn’t know you worked here,” he stammered.
“You didn’t know much about me, did you?” I replied, unable to keep the venom out of my voice.
He looked down, shame washing over his face. “I made mistakes, Sophia. I know I did.”
“Is that what you call abandoning your wife and child for a younger woman? A mistake?”
He sighed, his hands fidgeting. “I came here for a fresh start. Things haven’t been easy for me lately.”
I leaned back in my chair, the irony of his words hitting me like a freight train. “Haven’t been easy? Let me tell you about ‘not easy,’ Dad. Watching Mom work two jobs to keep a roof over our heads wasn’t easy. Hearing her cry herself to sleep every night wasn’t easy. Growing up knowing my father didn’t care about me wasn’t easy. So forgive me if I don’t feel sorry for you.”
He opened his mouth to respond but closed it again, unable to meet my gaze.
The room was silent for a moment before I spoke again. “Why are you here, Richard?”
“I… I need a job,” he admitted, his voice barely audible.
I studied him, my emotions warring inside me. Part of me wanted to throw him out, to let him suffer the way he’d made us suffer. But then, another part of me remembered my mother’s words: *“Revenge is hollow, Sophia. Be better than him.”*
“You want this job?” I said finally. “Fine. You’ll get it—but under one condition.”
He looked up, his eyes wide with surprise. “What’s the condition?”
“You’ll start at the bottom,” I said firmly. “Entry-level. No special treatment. And you’ll answer to me. Every. Single. Day. Do you understand?”
He nodded, swallowing hard. “I understand.”
The months that followed were surreal. Seeing him as an employee, following my orders, was a strange mix of satisfaction and melancholy. But something unexpected happened. Slowly, I saw glimpses of the man I used to call Dad—the one who laughed with me, the one who promised me the world.
One day, after a long meeting, he stopped by my office. “Sophia,” he said hesitantly, “I know I don’t deserve it, but… thank you. For giving me a second chance.”
I didn’t respond immediately. I wasn’t ready to forgive him—not yet. But as he left, I realized something: maybe this wasn’t just about revenge. Maybe it was about finding closure, about finally moving on from the pain he caused.
And maybe, just maybe, it was about healing—for both of us.
