I thought I was doing everything right for six years. I was proud of how fair, professional, and consistent I was as a supervisor. I did have a strict yet fair attitude. I thought breaching the rules was bad because it showed others how to do things wrong. That’s what I persuaded myself every time I had to choose between two hard things. That’s exactly what I told Maria when I let her go last week.
She had been late to work three times in the last month. It was easy: you were out after three strikes. I didn’t get mad or yell. I sat her down and calmly told her what was going on. I told her we had no other choice. Her face was blank, and she nodded without saying anything. There are no reasons or arguments. She took her old tote bag, murmured “Thank you” in a gentle voice, and exited the office.
I didn’t feel guilty; I felt uncomfortable. I still forgot about it. There was a reason for the rules.
A few days later, I walked by the break room and heard two of my coworkers conversing in a low voice. I stopped since it was a habit and I was curious.
A person asked, “Have you heard about Maria?”
The other individual answered, “Yes.” “She and her son have been sleeping in the car.” Denise told me at church.
My heart sank. I could feel the blood leaving my face.
It was strange that she didn’t explain herself after she nodded quietly and carried a big suitcase. For a few moments, I couldn’t move because I realized how bad what I’d done was.
I didn’t just do what I was told.
I had let go of a woman who was barely able to hold her whole life together with both hands.
Maria couldn’t find her ex-husband. She didn’t have any family in town, any money saved up, or a little boy who needed her. I found out that she would wake up in her car every morning, drive across town to a church bathroom to wash up, get her son ready for school, and then go to work, usually on time. The three days I told her to be late? They were presumably caused by breaking a habit, having a bad night, or just trying to stay alive.
I couldn’t help but feel bad.
I tried to call her, but she didn’t pick up. I texted. Nothing at all. I called a couple nearby shelters and told them I was looking for a woman named Maria and her little kid. Not a chance.
Then, one late afternoon, I saw it in the parking lot of a supermarket store. There were some things heaped up in the rear seat of the ancient gray vehicle with foggy windows. I took my time walking up. Through the glass, I could see the face of a youngster peering out from behind a blanket. My stomach hurt.
I gave the window a little touch.
Maria was astonished and sat up in the driver’s seat. Her face immediately went from scared to recognizing him to being cautiously unwilling. I raised my hand to signify that I didn’t want to hurt anyone.
“Maria,” I said softly. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t say anything; she just stared at me with tired, unsure eyes.
“Not that I knew. About your son and the situation you’re in. I should have asked. I should have cared enough to ask.
She was on the verge of tears, but she stopped herself. Me too.
I said, “I’d like to give you your job back.” “I want to help, and more than that.”
She slowly opened the door, still on alert.
I said again, “I’d rather not give you anything.” “I’m trying to fix something that went wrong.”
A friend of mine had a few small rental properties nearby. I called him and told him what was going on. We found a little one-bedroom apartment with a kitchenette and a functional heater by that evening. I made a deal with someone else to rent. Paid the first month’s rent. Maria wasn’t sure and felt like she had too much to deal with, so she didn’t say yes right away.
I looked her in the eye and said, “This isn’t pity.” I’m trying to be the kind of leader I should have been from the beginning.
We moved a few of her items that night. A plastic tub full of clothes. A few kid-friendly books. A stuffed animal that isn’t in great shape anymore.
When we put James to bed in a nice bed with clean sheets and a comfy pillow, he whispered to his mom, “It even has a night-light.”
The next day, Maria went back to work.
She had changed, but she was stronger. More concentrated. She also felt better about herself. She also smiled more. Our staff saw it immediately away. But what surprised me the most was how the vibe in the office altered, almost without me even recognizing it at first. People were more willing to lend a hand. They paused to ask each other how things were doing. There was a feeling of sympathy where there had simply been routine before.
Maria performed a good job. She did a lot better work. She came up with new ideas for the team, asked for more flexible hours for parents who worked, and quietly taught some of our newer employees. She didn’t talk much about those hard days, but I could see they had a big impact on her. She wasn’t a victim; she was someone who understood courage in a way that most people never will.
I learnt something that no policy book had ever told me.
Being a good boss means more than just following the rules. It’s about knowing when to ignore them. It entails asking questions, actively listening, and occasionally providing persons with a second chance—not out of obligation, but because it is the ethically correct course of action.
That one chance changed more than just Maria’s life. It changed everything for me.
And it softly altered the whole squad.
The most important thing to remember about leadership is that individuals aren’t problems to fix; they’re stories that need to be understood.
