Your assistant’s signature is there.
But above it, typed in neat letters, is your name.
Approved by policy of Señor Emiliano Vargas.
You do not remember seeing it.
That is the worst part.
You do not remember because people like Rosa never reached your desk. Their needs were filtered out before they could inconvenience you. Your empire ran smoothly because suffering was kept far away from your eyes.
Rosa does not accuse you.
That makes it worse.
She only says, “I know you are busy, señor. I know my problems are not your responsibility.”
The little girl with the rabbit whispers, “Don’t take Mamá away.”
Your heart drops.
That is what they thought.
That you came to take their mother.
You look at Rosa, and for the first time in three years, she is not furniture. She is not background. She is a woman standing between her children and disaster with nothing but a plastic bag of leftovers.
You came here to humiliate her.
But the shame is yours.
