The clock on the wall of my cubicle felt like a giant, ticking down the precious, stolen minutes of my workday. My son, Ethan, had been battling a nasty flu for over a week, one of those persistent, miserable viruses that just wouldn’t quit. I’d burned through every sick day and vacation hour I had saved. Now, I was running on fumes and a desperate hope that he would get better before I was utterly ruined.
I knew I had to ask. Walking into Mr. Henderson’s office felt like stepping onto a minefield. His face was already set in a familiar scowl, the kind that promised a lecture on “professional dedication” before I even opened my mouth. He was the kind of manager who treated time off like a personal insult to his perfectly optimized schedule.
