I hang up, grabbing my blazer off the chair. I stop by Rue's desk on the way to the elevator.
"Will you please drop in on the committee meeting room and tell them to start without me? I've got to take care of something and will be in shortly. They have the agenda, so I can catch up once I'm done."
My heels click against the tile as I hurry down the corridor. My mind races. Four years ago, that could have been me. Every single day I was keenly aware that I was one bad break from disaster, juggling Beckett and work and childcare and bills with no safety net. If not for Gemma and my mom those first few months, I don't know how I could have done it.
Not everyone has help or support. Hell, even a cheerleader.
I round the corner, my pulse quickening. This isn't just about one employee. It's about the systems that fail women like us, that pretend we can handle everything alone until we break. And then criticizing us when we fail.
Pushing open the HR office door, I catch my first glimpse of Melissa Torres. She sits hunched in the vinyl visitor's chair, shoulders curved inward like a question mark.
Her dark hair falls across her face as she rocks a stroller back and forth with one hand while clutching a stack of crumpled papers in the other. A toddler inside the stroller whimpers. Tiny red sneakers kick against the fabric.
"Ms. Harrelson," Darcy steps forward from behind her desk, relief washing over her features. "Thank you for coming down?—"
"Of course. Let me talk to her."
I move past Darcy toward Melissa, whose mascara tracks down her cheeks in thin black rivers. The fluorescent light whirrs overhead, casting harsh shadows across her exhausted face.
"I'm so sorry," Melissa whispers, voice cracking. "I found this taped to my door when I was leaving for work." Her hands tremble as she waves the papers. "I didn’t even have time to read it. I just grabbed Juan and ran because I was already late. But daycare wouldn’t take him with the fever, so Radiology had to cover my shift."
"Slow down. Tell me what we're dealing with here."
"Three hundred more a month. Just like that. No warning." Her breathing hitches. "I already missed two shifts this month when Juan had strep, and my sister couldn’t watch him, and now this?—"
The toddler’s whimpering grows louder, small fists batting at the stroller restraints.
My throat tightens as I crouch down to Melissa's eye level, putting one hand on her knee and the other on the stroller. I ignore the pinch of my pencil skirt. "May I?" I gesture to the papers.
She hands them over, fingers trembling. I scan quickly. The legalese is dense, but certain clauses stand out immediately. This isn't just an eviction notice; it's predatory. Section 8 housing with illegal accelerated increases, retaliatory timing after maintenance complaints.
"Mommy?" The little boy's face scrunches, his lower lip trembling. I can tell he's sick with his watery eyes and red nose. He doesn't need to be in here. He needs to go home, in bed.
Something sharp twists in my chest. Four years ago, that was me: terrified, alone, pretending I wasn't completely unraveling while my infant, Beckett, fussed in his stroller when I had to be at work, and I had a paper due for school.
Different city, same desperate arithmetic of bills and childcare and impossible choices.
I reach over and touch Melissa's wrist, keeping my voice calm and steady. "You're not alone. We're going to figure this out."
Her shoulders relax a fraction, her breathing steadying.
I straighten up, making a snap decision. I pull my phone from my pocket, already scrolling through my contacts. I pull up Warren's number and start typing out a text before I can second-guess myself. He's here, just upstairs in the meeting I should be in. Maybe he can help.
Darcy hovers at my shoulder while Melissa digs through her diaper bag for a tissue to wipe Juan's nose. My pulse hammers as I type.
I need your help.
A beat. No reply. My fingers fly again.
One of our techs just got served an eviction notice. She’s here in HR with a toddler in a stroller and worried she can't go home for fear of what the landlord might do.
Lease terms look predatory. Maybe illegal.
The dots appear, vanish, reappear. I can almost see him upstairs, jaw tight, weighing whether my problem is worth his time.
Finally—
Text me the paperwork.