**Diary Entry – A Turning Point**

*Friday, 12th May*

“Do you have children? Ah, I see… I’m afraid you won’t be suitable for this role,” Emily, a mother of two, heard yet another rejection at her fifth job interview this month. “You’ll be constantly calling in sick, taking time off… We can’t afford that kind of risk. We need someone reliable. Best of luck!”

“Just look at yourself,” her mother-in-law, Margaret, scolded her—again. “How long are you going to float about without work? Living off my son’s hard-earned money?”

Emily swallowed back tears, her throat burning. “I *am* looking! But no one will hire me because I have two children! I’m trying, truly!”

Margaret snorted and slammed the door behind her. Emily thought back to the day her life had started unravelling. There’d been shouting then, too.

“Emily, this is unacceptable! Mistakes like these in the report are an absolute disgrace!” Her boss, Mr. Harrison, had torn into her. “Can you imagine if we’d sent this to a client?”

She sat rigidly, nails digging into her palms under the desk. “Mr. Harrison, I’d have submitted on time, but the marketing team gave me the data late. I had to rework everything overnight.”

“I don’t want excuses!” he barked. “I want results!”

His voice grew distant. The room swayed. Her head felt unbearably heavy.

“Are you even listening?!” he snapped.

“I feel faint…” she whispered—then slid off the chair into darkness.

She woke in hospital. White ceiling. The sterile smell of antiseptic. The steady beep of a monitor. At her bedside, slumped in a chair, was her husband, James, exhaustion etched into his face.

“Jamie…” she murmured.

He jolted awake, his face lighting up. “Em! Thank God you’re alright. We were so worried.”

“What happened? Why am I here?”

“You fainted at work. Right in Harrison’s office. The ambulance came quickly. The doctors said it was stress, exhaustion… borderline pre-stroke.”

Two days later, she returned home. Her boys—Liam, six, and Noah, three—greeted her with crayoned drawings and homemade cards. Her mother had made pancakes. The house was warm, loving.

Once the boys were asleep, she and James sat at the kitchen table.

“I’m resigning,” she said, stirring her tea. “I won’t last under Harrison—it’ll kill me.”

James studied her. “Are you sure? Fifteen years with one company—that’s not nothing.”

“That’s exactly why I *am* sure. Fifteen years of tolerating humiliation, doing twice the work, and getting nothing but scorn in return.”

“Then I support you,” he said softly, squeezing her hand. “Your health comes first.”

The next morning, she handed in her notice. Heart pounding but resolute, she placed the letter on Harrison’s desk.

“What’s this?” He didn’t even look up.

“My resignation. Effective immediately.”

“You dare?! After everything this company’s done for you?!”

“I’ve earned the right to leave after fifteen years,” she said, holding his gaze.

“Fine! Get out!” he snarled, signing the paper. “Don’t expect a reference!”

The two-week notice period dragged, but finally, her last day arrived. She handed over her files, said goodbye to colleagues, and stepped out of the office. For the first time in years, she felt light.

At home, James and the boys greeted her with a homemade cake and balloons.

Emily smiled. Two degrees. Fifteen years of experience. She *would* be valued elsewhere. Her new life was just beginning.

Or so she thought.

Reality hit hard.

At her first interview, the HR manager beamed. “Your experience is remarkable, Mrs. Carter! Fifteen years with one firm speaks volumes.”

Emily smiled modestly. “I’ve always been committed. I wouldn’t have left, but circumstances forced my hand.”

“Of course,” the woman leaned in. “Do you have children?”

The question was gentle, but Emily tensed.

“Yes. Two boys. Six and three.”

The woman’s smile vanished. “I’m afraid this role involves frequent travel. With young children, that might be… challenging.”

“But the job description didn’t mention travel!”

“We’ve revised the requirements. We’ll be in touch.”

Emily knew they wouldn’t.

The second rejection came quicker.

“Two little ones? They must catch every bug going,” the interviewer mused.

“All children do. But we’ve family support.”

“Statistics show mothers of preschoolers rarely stay long-term. We need stability.”

By the third interview, they dismissed her before she’d finished speaking.

“Six and three? I’m sorry, but our schedules are relentless. Sick days would complicate things.” “I *rarely* take sick days!”

“Best of luck elsewhere.”

Months passed. Savings dwindled. James worked overtime, took weekend shifts. Tension thickened at home.

Margaret’s visits grew unbearable.

“Another new blouse?” she sneered one Sunday. “While my son’s breaking his back?”

“It’s old. I just don’t wear it often.”

“Of course,” Margaret scoffed. “Too busy lazing about to find work.”

James intervened. “Mum, *enough*. Emily sends out applications daily. The job market’s brutal.”

“In *my* day, women worked with *three* children! Now they’re all too delicate.”

Afterwards, Emily locked herself in the bathroom, turned on the taps, and cried silently.

Then, a lifeline. Her friend Sarah messaged: *”Saw this. Thought of you.”*

An online course—accounting certification. Three months. £1,500.

*Where would she get that money?*

But something whispered: *This is your chance.*

She borrowed from her parents, Sarah, even an old colleague. Every penny.

She studied nights while the house slept. Eyes burning, but she never missed a lecture. Never fell behind.

“You look exhausted,” James remarked one morning.

“Just the weather,” she lied.

Margaret noticed the tablet. “Another luxury? While James slaves away?”

“It’s his old one. He lent it to me.”

“For *films*? Priorities, Emily!”

“*Mum*,” James warned.

Three months flew. Emily graduated top of her class. Now—the real test.

“Why are you always on the laptop?” James asked.

“Job hunting.”

“In accounting?”

She came clean. He was furious—why keep it secret?—but then hugged her tight. “You’ll smash it.”

And she did.

First offer: remote bookkeeper, part-time. Modest pay, but flexible.

“Start Monday?”

“Absolutely!”

Her first pay-check—£1,200. Not fortune, but *hers*. She repaid her parents immediately.

More clients followed. Within months, she earned over £3,000 monthly. Debts cleared. Savings growing.

Sarah hugged her. “I *knew* you’d do it.”

“No office. No bosses. I’m here for the boys—even when Liam’s poorly.”

Margaret’s next visit was priceless. She gaped at the new sofa.

“Where’d *this* come from?”

“Emily bought it,” James said smugly.

“With *what* money?”

“Mine,” Emily said calmly. “I’m a qualified accountant now.”

Margaret blinked. “Accounting? You?”

“Remote work. Better pay than before, actually.”

A long pause. Then, grudgingly: “Well. Congrats.”

After she left, James pulled Emily close. “I’m proud of you. When everything was against you—you fought back.”

She leaned into him. Forty years old. Two kids. And she’d *reinvented* herself.

The lesson? When doors slam in your face—*build your own*.