“Do you have two children? Ah, I see… I’m afraid you wouldn’t be a good fit for us.” Emma, a mother of two, heard this rejection for the fifth time at yet another job interview. “You’ll be constantly falling ill, taking sick leave… Who needs that kind of trouble? We can’t take risks—we need someone more dependable. Best of luck to you!”

“Look at yourself,” her mother-in-law, Margaret, scolded her yet again. “How long are you going to stay unemployed? Living off my son like this!”

Emma swallowed back tears that burned her throat, fighting to hold them in.

“I’m trying to find work! But no one will hire me because I’m a mum with two children! I’m doing everything I can!”

Margaret snorted and slammed the door on her way out. Emma remembered the day her life had started falling apart—the shouting then had been just the same.

“Emma, this is completely unacceptable! These mistakes in the report are an absolute disgrace!” Victor, her boss at the company, tore into her. “Do you realise what would’ve happened if we’d sent this to clients?”

Emma sat across from him, hands clenched under the table so tightly her nails dug into her palms.

“Victor, I would’ve met the deadline, but the marketing department gave me the data late. I had to work through the night to finish it,” she replied calmly.

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

His voice sounded distant, as if fading away. The room blurred before her eyes. Her head felt heavy as lead.

“Are you even listening?!” he barked.

“I’m not feeling well…” she whispered before slumping forward, unconscious.

She woke up in hospital. White ceiling, the sterile scent of medicine, the steady beeping of a monitor. Beside her, her husband David dozed in a chair, his face lined with exhaustion.

“Dave…” she whispered faintly.

He startled awake and broke into a smile.

“Emma! You’re finally back with us! We were so worried.”

“What happened? Why am I here?”

“You collapsed at work—right in Victor’s office. The ambulance came quickly. The doctors said it was stress, exhaustion… Even signs of a pre-stroke condition.”

Two days later, Emma was home. Her boys—six-year-old Liam and three-year-old Noah—greeted her with drawings and handmade cards. Her mum had baked scones, filling the house with warmth.

Once the kids were asleep, she and David sat alone in the kitchen.

“I’ve decided to quit,” she said, stirring her tea. “A boss like that will drive me straight to a stroke. It’s not worth it.”

David studied her carefully.

“Are you sure? Fifteen years at the same company—that means a lot.”

“Exactly why I am sure,” she set her cup down. “Fifteen years of tolerating abuse, working harder than anyone, only to be met with shouting and contempt instead of gratitude.”

“Then I support you,” David squeezed her hand. “Your health matters more.”

The next day, Emma handed in her resignation. Her heart pounded, but she stood firm. She walked into Victor’s office and placed the letter on his desk.

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

“I’m resigning. Effective immediately,” she said evenly.

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

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

“Fine! Get out!” he roared, angrily signing the letter. “Don’t expect a reference!”

The two-week notice period dragged, but her last day came. She handed over her work, said goodbye to colleagues, and stepped out of the office—lighter than she’d felt in years.

At home, David and the boys waited with a homemade cake and balloons.

Emma smiled. Two degrees, fifteen years of success—employers should be fighting over her. Her new life was just beginning.

She was sure finding work would be easy. A month, tops. But reality proved harsher.

The first interview went brilliantly. The HR manager beamed at her.

“Your experience is outstanding, Emma! Fifteen years at one firm—that speaks volumes.”

Emma smiled modestly.

“I always delivered. I wouldn’t have left, but circumstances changed…”

“Of course, I understand,” the woman leaned forward. “Just one thing—do you have children?”

The question was soft, but Emma tensed.

“Yes, two sons. Six and three.”

The HR manager’s expression shifted. Her smile vanished, replaced by cold calculation.

“Emma, I’m sorry… This role involves frequent travel. With little ones, that just wouldn’t work.”

“But the job description mentioned no travel,” Emma protested.

“Plans changed. We’ll be in touch.”

She knew they wouldn’t.

The second interview went better. They loved her ideas, even discussed a start date.

“Just one last question,” the recruiter said. “You have children? Ages?”

“Two. Six and three.”

“Ah. They must fall ill often?” He narrowed his eyes.

“Like all kids. But my parents help out,” she lied, desperate for the job.

“See, statistically, mums with preschoolers don’t stay long. You’re skilled, but we need stability.”

The third interview ended before it began.

“Emma, your application doesn’t list your children’s ages,” the hiring manager noted.

“Six and three.”

“Sorry, but our schedule is brutal. Sick days would be a problem.”

“I hardly ever take sick days! Just once last year!”

“Best of luck elsewhere,” the woman dismissed her.

Weeks became months. Emma revised her CV, applied everywhere, attended interviews—only to hear the same polite rejections after mentioning her boys.

Six months passed. Savings dwindled. David worked overtime, took weekend gigs. The house grew tense with every silent meal.

One Saturday, Margaret arrived unannounced, blunt as ever.

“Emma, forgive my frankness, but this can’t go on,” she said sharply. “My son is exhausted. Why did you quit? You could’ve taken maternity leave—Noah’s only three!”

“Mum, that’s not the point!” David cut in. “Emma almost had a stroke from stress!”

“Oh, these modern ‘stress conditions,’” Margaret scoffed. “Faint once, and everyone must cater to you. Meanwhile, my son works himself to the bone.”

“Mum!”

“Margaret,” Emma said quietly, “I apply for jobs daily. The moment they hear I have kids, they turn me down.”

“Then don’t mention them! Say they’re grown!”

“And if Liam falls ill? What then?” Emma stood. “Excuse me, I need to check on the boys.”

The next day, Emma met her friend Sophie at a café while David watched the kids.

“I can’t do this, Soph,” tears streamed down her face. “I feel worthless. No job, living off David, and his mother never lets up.”

“Ignore her—you know how she is,” Sophie passed her a tissue.

“But she’s right. Maybe quitting was a mistake?”

“Are you mad?! You’re lucky you left before that job killed you!” Sophie said fiercely. “You did the right thing.”

“Then why does it feel like I’ve failed? Every interview ends the same—like I’m some burden.”

“Could you take something outside your field temporarily?”

“Same issue—they’d still ask about kids.” Emma laughed bitterly. “No one wants a mum with two under seven.”

“Parents? Could they help?”

“They work full-time. Mum retires in two years, Dad in five.”

“A nanny?”

“With what money, Soph? Our savings are gone. Soon I’ll be begging David for lipstick money.”

Sophie gave her a sympathetic look but had no solutions—she worked part-time herself, barely making ends meet with three kids.

Emma walked home slowly, dreading the return. Inside waited her boys—her joy, yet so demanding. A tired husband. A future with no light in sight.

“How did it come to this?” she thought, staring at the grey, clouded sky.

Days blurred into an endless cycle: job sites, applications, rare interviews, rejections.

“Mum, you wouldn’t believe it,” she vented over the phone. “I see a perfect job—degree required, fifteen years’ experience, expert-level skills. I apply, and… silence.”

“Call them?” her mum suggested.

“I do. They say I’m not a match—but I hear it in their voices. They’re scared of my kids.”

Networking failed too.

“Emma, sorry, but our project manager must be on call 24/7. Late nights, weekend emergencies—how would you juggle that with two little ones?”

“Mark, I’ll make it work.”

“And who collects them from nursery when the team works late?” He shook his head. “Call me when they’re older—I’d hire you in a heartbeat.”

She broadened her search: admin roles, assistant jobs, even considered barista training.But then, one crisp autumn morning, an email arrived offering her full-time remote work as a freelance accountant—flexibility to suit her life, respect for her skills, and a future brimming with possibilities.