When my son landed in the ICU, I begged my boss for five days off. “Separate work from private life,” he snapped. The next morning, I wheeled my son’s hospital bed—IVs, monitors, nurse and all—straight into the office and parked it outside his glass office. “You said to separate them,” I told him. “Here’s both.” I opened my laptop and worked one-handed, the other clutching my boy’s.
Silence fell. Coworkers soon pitched in—covering shifts, bringing meals, guarding the door. HR offered paid leave, but I stayed. My son’s fingers twitched; hope flickered. A coworker’s video went viral: “Dedication—or desperation?” Offers poured in; one rival doubled my salary, added remote work, full flexibility.
Day five: my son opened his eyes. “Dad?” I wept. That afternoon, I packed up. My boss blocked the door, voice soft. “I was wrong. You taught me what matters.” Sorry became policy.
A year on, my son’s healthy, dreaming of med school. I took the new job—for the humanity, not the money. Work waits. Love doesn’t. The right place honors both.
