I Fired a Single Mom for Being Late — Then Found Out Why and Begged for Forgiveness

I took one of them out of the way. “What does’sleeping in her car’ mean to you?”

As it happened, Celia had been kicked out a month prior. With no family nearby and no child support, her ex vanished. She had been working double shifts when she could, but she and her six-year-old had been living in her car because most shelters were full. She had to drive across town to a church that allowed them to take a shower before dropping him off at school, which is why she was late those mornings.

I was ill.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it after I got home that evening. Because she was careless, she wasn’t late. She was attempting to survive, which is why she was late. And I had just made things worse for her.

I gave her a call the following morning. She didn’t answer. I sent a text. Nothing.

I therefore located the most recent address we had on file and took a car there. The manager informed me that she had been evicted weeks prior, but the apartment complex was dilapidated.

I’m currently sitting in my car looking up ways to get in touch with her online. Even whether she still has her phone is unknown to me.

If she wants a job, I can give it to her. I’d like to help more than that.

However, what if it’s too late?

I’m not sure how long I sat there looking at my phone before I finally decided what to do. I had to locate her. I began making calls, looking through food banks, shelters, and any other places she might have sought assistance. While most establishments were prohibited from disclosing personal information, a woman at a downtown church paused when I brought up Celia’s name.Throughout my nearly six years as a manager, I have always believed that I am fair. Fair, perhaps, but strict. Where does it end if I make an exception for one person? Rules are rules. When I fired Celia last week, I told myself that.

For the third time this month, she was late. Three strikes and you’re out is our unambiguous policy. When I called her into my office, she hardly spoke. Without protesting, she simply nodded, picked up her bag, and walked out. That ought to have been the first indication that something wasn’t right.

I heard two coworkers whispering later that afternoon. One person inquired, “Have you heard about Celia’s son?” The other sighed, “Yes.” “What a bad child. He has been sleeping with her in her car.