I stepped into the interview room, sure this was the moment my life would finally turn around. But the second I saw who was sitting on the other side of the table, my heart sank — it was the last person I ever wanted to see again. My dream quickly turned into a nightmare.
As a child, I always pictured myself as an architect, just like my dad. This childhood dream stuck with me into adulthood. My father taught me to draw, cheered me on through college, and supported every step I took. But right before graduation, he passed away — taking a huge piece of my heart with him.
He never saw me graduate or start my career, but I pushed forward for him. Eventually, I moved back to my hometown, a place I hadn’t visited in seven years because of painful memories. I returned to chase my dream job at the same company my dad worked for.
I settled into an apartment near the office, full of hope. I was confident; I’d worked so hard and felt ready. The night before the interview, I was so anxious I couldn’t sleep and ended up unpacking all night.
By morning, I found myself asleep on the floor. I woke up panicked but realized I still had two hours before my interview. I got ready, ate breakfast, and drove to the company — the same building I’d run through as a kid when visiting my dad.
As I waited in the hallway, surrounded by other candidates, my nerves took over. But my dad’s words echoed in my mind: “Remember, you’re stronger than anyone in your way. Trust that I believe in you.”
When they finally called my name, I heard a voice I thought was in my imagination. But it wasn’t — it was her.
My mother, Linda. The woman I hadn’t seen since my dad’s funeral.
Seeing her in that chair shattered me.
“Linda?! What are you doing here?!” I yelled in shock.
“Kassandra…” she started softly.
I demanded answers, furious that she dared to be there — in the place my father had loved so much. She tried to calm me, asking me to shut the door, but I refused.
“You don’t belong here! You killed my father!” I screamed.
She insisted he’d died of a heart attack, but I blamed her betrayal. I believed she broke his heart, leaving him to die alone while she was with another man.
Linda tried to explain, but I wasn’t ready to listen. Another employee entered and offered to call security, but I left on my own, sobbing all the way to my car.
On the drive home, memories of my father’s death flooded back — my mother’s call during finals, coming home to find out she was with someone else when he died, and cutting her out of my life forever.
Back in my apartment, I started pacing, overwhelmed. I knew I couldn’t work at a place where she was in charge.
That evening, she knocked on my door. I opened it, saw her face, and slammed it shut. She pleaded to talk, saying I’d been accepted for the job.
“How can you hire me without an interview?” I snapped.
She told me she believed in me, that no one else was more qualified. But I shouted that I didn’t need her pity.
She pressed on: “Are you really going to give up your lifelong dream?”
That question sent me over the edge. I flung the door open and demanded, “What do you know about my dreams?!”
She insisted she was still my mother and still my family. I screamed back, asking where that family loyalty was when she cheated on my dad.
Then she dropped a truth I wasn’t ready for — she and my dad had been separated for months before he died. He had also been unfaithful, and they were finalizing a divorce.
I didn’t believe her until she handed me documents: divorce papers dated months before his death.
I fell to the floor, papers in hand, my world shattered.
She sat beside me, saying she only wanted to protect my image of my dad. I realized that the truth had been hidden all these years, and my hate had been based on half the story.
Finally, she offered me the job again. I hesitated, unsure for the first time if architecture was really my own dream or something I inherited from my father.
“I think… I need to think about it,” I said quietly.
She stood to leave. “Then goodbye,” she said.
As she left, I whispered for the first time in years, “Thank you… Mom.”