I trained him eight months ago, and then his unlocked screen showed me the number: he makes $31,000 more than I do.
PART 5
Diane called me in Thursday afternoon. The silence in the office after I walked to her door felt like held breath, like everyone suddenly aware of what was always there. Priya watched from Accounting. Greg looked up from his screen, confused, and I didn’t meet his eyes.
Diane closed the door.
“HR approved a salary adjustment,” she said. She slid a paper across the desk. “Effective next pay period. It’s an eleven percent increase.”
I looked at the number. $72,150. Not the full gap. Not even close. But seven thousand dollars more than I made last week. Seven thousand dollars I didn’t have because I never asked.
“This brings you to the top of the band for your role,” Diane said. She was reading from something, her voice careful. “We’ve also restructured the client lead responsibilities to reflect your seniority.”
I looked at her. She looked at the paper.
“I should have brought this to you sooner,” Diane said. She said it to the desk, not to me. “I should have flagged it.”
It wasn’t an apology. It was an acknowledgment. I decided it was enough.
“Thank you,” I said.
I walked back to my desk. Sat down. Opened my email. The salary adjustment letter was already there, official and time-stamped. I forwarded it to my personal email. Then I opened Greg Data one last time. Seventeen days. $7,843. I looked at the numbers. I didn’t delete the file. I exported it, saved it to my drive, and then I closed the sheet.
Greg looked over the divider. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”
Friday I brought stroopwafels to the office. The same brand Greg orders, the imported kind, twelve dollars for a box of ten. I didn’t check my account balance before I bought them. I just bought them.
I set the box on the counter in the break room. Greg came in for coffee, saw them, looked at me.
“Stroopwafels?” he said, smiling.
“Thought I’d treat the team,” I said. “You know. Fridays.”
He took one. “These are great. Where’d you get them?”
“Same place you do, I think.”
He bit into it, nodded. “You have good taste.”
I took one too. Unwrapped it slowly, the caramel scent rising warm and sweet. The taste was the same as it always was. But my hands weren’t shaking. I wasn’t doing math in my head. I wasn’t tracking hours or calculating loss.
Greg leaned against the counter, easy and content, and I stood next to him, and we were not the same. We had never been the same. But I had stopped waiting for someone to notice.
Priya walked in, saw the stroopwafels, looked at me. I met her eyes. She smiled, small and knowing, and took a cookie from the box.
The office hummed around us. Phones ringing. Keyboards clicking. The burnt-coffee smell from the Keurig, bitter and familiar, but I didn’t mind it anymore.
I finished the stroopwafel and threw the wrapper away. My box, my treat, bought with money I asked for. The price tag I didn’t have to think about twice.
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This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
