I Was Fired With A 3-Year-Old Daughter At Home. 20 Years Later, My Boss Explained Why.
“We won’t be needing you anymore.”
I remember the call as if it were yesterday. My editor phoned me early on a Monday morning in 2005 to break the news. Her voice was cold, emotionless, matter-of-fact.
“I don’t understand,” I replied to the bombshell she dropped. “I’ve been writing several articles a month. I’m on contract!” That amounted to a decent income I counted on since leaving a full-time job to raise my then 3-year-old. What would I tell my husband? How could I find another steady gig on such short notice? I had private nursery school to pay for, clothes and shoes to buy for a growing toddler. How could she do this to me?
I expected an apology — or at least an explanation — for my abrupt dismissal, but never got one. In fact, two of my articles were immediately reassigned, and my dismissal was announced to coworkers, who sent sympathy emails. It was brutal.
This woman wasn’t just my boss; we had gone out for drinks and dinners multiple times, and she had come to my baby shower. I couldn’t wrap my brain around how she could be so heartless and cruel — and frankly, I never forgot it.
Now, almost 20 years have passed, and I have moved on. I never asked for a job referral and I never spoke to her again — until I bumped into her walking through Central Park a few weeks ago. Our dogs sniffed each other while she gave me a cautious smile. I wanted to turn my back and pretend she didn’t exist, but she was too quick.
“It’s been so long! Forever!” she exclaimed. “Can we catch up over lunch?”
I barely recognized her. Her hair was gray and knotted in a messy bun. Gone was the sleek Anna Wintour bob, chic suit and heels; she was wearing sweats and sneakers. I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say. Amazingly, the wound still stung, even after all this time.
She told me to reach out in a text — her phone number was still the same.
“I might have deleted it,” I replied. I knew I had.
“Instagram then,” she called as her dog pulled her further into the park. “Would love to reconnect! Please!”
I mulled it over for a week before DMing. Did I really want to spend time with someone who had torpedoed my career — not to mention my financial security — without any notice? Who didn’t give a damn what happened to me or my family or the chaos she caused? What could she possibly say that would change my mind about how I felt?
I guess my curiosity got the best of me — and she did say “please.” I agreed to meet up at a coffee shop on the Upper East Side. She was early, sipping an espresso at the table, when I walked in.
“So,” she began. “How is everything? How’s your daughter?”
“Grown up. Graduated from college.”
She nodded. “I remember when she was just a baby.”
I felt strangely sorry for her, for the feelings that had motivated her to dismiss me. Would I have felt similarly if I had been in her shoes at the time?
I held my tongue. What I wanted to say was, “I bet you do! That’s when you gave me the heave-ho and ruined my life!” Instead, I ordered a latte and let her fill the silence with talk of redecorating her apartment, the novel she was researching, a TV series she wanted to pitch to Hollywood. None of it surprised me. She was not someone who would slow down — not even after her magazine folded and most of her colleagues retired.
By the time our salads arrived, she had taken me through the past two decades of her illustrious career. What she left out were the details of her personal life; a messy separation from her husband. I knew about it through industry gossip, and frankly, enjoyed reports of any misfortune that befell her. It was payback, wasn’t it?
She reached across the table to touch my hand, and I thought this was what she was about to share. Instead, she said something that caught me completely off guard.
“I’m sorry,” she began. “I suppose I wasn’t much of a girl’s girl back then.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant; just that her voice was soft and sad.
“It was my choice not to work with you,” she continued. “No one else’s. Not the magazine. Not the higher-ups. Me.”
“Why? I demanded. “Why would you do something like that? What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing. You just had the life I wanted. You were home with your child, and I couldn’t be. I was jealous. I resented you. I hope you can forgive me. It was a different time, but that’s no excuse. I should have been more supportive of a woman trying to balance motherhood and career. I regret it terribly.”
I wanted to hate her. I wanted to tell her how her actions threw me into a tailspin of self-doubt and stress for over a year before I landed on my feet. I wanted to confide that I had repeated nightmares over the years of that firing. But I couldn’t. I felt strangely sorry for her, for the feelings that had motivated her to dismiss me. Would I have felt similarly if I had been in her shoes at the time? Would I have been angry at another woman for trying to set boundaries in the workplace?
“It’s OK,” I found myself saying. “Things happen for a reason, right?”
As soon as the words left my lips, I felt better. Not just about releasing the grudge I had held for so long, but also about where I was, right here, right now.
I’m happy. I’m content, I’m writing new and exciting work every day — and no one can take that away from me. I have grown and matured, and oddly enough, this incident suddenly no longer mattered. I had deemed this woman my arch-nemesis, and it now felt so good to no longer hate her or blame her.
So yes, I would forgive her. It didn’t mean what she did to me was right; it simply meant I was willing to make peace with the pain it caused. The minute I forgave my foe, I felt a tremendous sense of relief and calm wash over me. It was as if I had taken control of a situation that caused me suffering and rewrote the narrative. I felt empowered.
After our lunch, my old enemy picked up the check and wrote her cell phone number on a napkin. “I hope we can be friends,” she said.
Besties? No. But friendly acquaintances, I can accept. It’s a step closer — for both of us — to healing.
