Ruthie heart pounded, a rhythmic reminder of the enormity of the day ahead. She had waited for this moment for years, yet the reality of it—the silent, empty parking lot, the still-locked gates—made her chest tighten with anxiety. She shifted her weight, feeling the dampness of the morning creeping into her shoes, and glanced at her file once more. Inside, the papers were neatly arranged, a small shield against the uncertainty surrounding her first day.
The low hum of the early city traffic grew louder as a bus approached, winding its way down the narrow street outside the company grounds. The vehicle hissed to a stop, releasing a small group of early workers. Among them, a man in his late twenties stepped down confidently, carrying a set of keys in his hand. His expression was calm but alert, a hint of curiosity flickering as he noticed the lone figure under the mango tree.
Ruthie took a deep breath and straightened her posture. Despite her rough hair and modest dress, she squared her shoulders and greeted him politely. "Good morning, sir," she called, her voice steady though laced with anticipation.
The man looked her over carefully, slightly puzzled. "Who are you?" he asked, his tone polite but questioning, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he studied her.
"It's… it's me," Ruthie replied, cheeks warming slightly. "Dave asked me to wait here for him at the office today. I was told to come early."
The man's eyes softened a fraction, recognition dawning. "Ah… I see," he said, a faint smile forming. "You may come in. The rain is drizzling, and I don't think you should wait outside in this."
Ruthie's shoulders relaxed slightly at his words. Relief washed over her—finally, she could step into the place that held the possibility of a new life, a chance she had prayed for in countless quiet moments.
The man unlocked the gate with practiced ease, the heavy metal creaking softly as it swung open. Ruthie followed closely, her file clutched to her chest as she took in the surroundings. The company grounds were larger than she had imagined from the outside: clean, meticulously maintained, the faint smell of fresh paint mingling with the earthy scent of wet grass. Rainwater glistened on the paved walkways, reflecting the early morning light in tiny, fragmented mirrors.
"Please, you may sit here and wait for him," the man instructed, gesturing to a small bench sheltered under the overhang near the entrance. He introduced himself briefly, though his name didn't matter to Ruthie in that moment; he was simply a friendly presence amidst the unfamiliar surroundings.
Ruthie nodded, carefully placing her file on her lap. She smoothed the papers with trembling hands, trying to keep her composure. Her mind raced with thoughts of Dave, of the stories Aminata had told her, of the expectations she was about to face. The reality of stepping into the office of a man known for his sharpness, exacting standards, and intimidating presence weighed heavily on her chest, but she refused to let fear take hold.
The raindrops continued their soft descent, tapping gently against the roof above her, a subtle percussion that marked the quiet tension of the morning. Ruthie took a deep breath, centering herself, whispering a quiet promise to the winds that carried the rain:
"I will not fail. I have waited for this for too long. I will do my best."
She adjusted the rough strands of hair that refused to behave, straightened the modest dress she had chosen in a rush, and sat with her back straight, eyes forward. Every instinct in her body was tuned to observation, to readiness, to seizing the opportunity that had come so unexpectedly.
Minutes stretched into a quiet eternity. The office behind the locked doors remained still, employees slowly beginning to trickle in from other entrances, the faint murmur of morning greetings carried through the corridors. Yet the main gates remained closed for the general staff, leaving Ruthie under the mango tree as the first witness to the birth of her new chapter.
The man who had let her in checked his watch occasionally, moving with practiced efficiency, yet never interrupting her space. Ruthie felt the weight of anticipation settle into her bones, a mixture of nervousness and excitement that tingled in her fingertips as she adjusted the file on her lap once more.
Every sound—the distant hum of the city, the soft drip of rain from the mango leaves, the shuffle of shoes from the arriving staff—was amplified in her heightened state. Each second stretched and contracted, the quiet tension of waiting making the eventual meeting feel monumental, almost sacred.
And beneath it all, Ruthie's determination blazed silently. The long years of struggle, of minor jobs, of scraping together money and hope, had led her here. Each misstep, each rough moment, each night spent worrying for her family had forged her into a young woman capable of endurance and courage.
She adjusted her dress one last time, smoothed her rough hair as best as she could, and held the file a little tighter, her knuckles white with the effort. The mango tree offered shade, shelter from the drizzle, yet it could not shield her from the storm of her own expectations. Today was her first step into a world she had only dreamed of—a world of precision, order, and perhaps, power.
The office gates remained locked, but Ruthie did not flinch. She sat poised, determined, and ready to face whatever lay beyond that door.
The minutes ticked by, each one heavy with promise. And somewhere beyond the locked gate, the office prepared to Ruthie sat in the small receptionist office, clutching her file tightly, knuckles white from the tension of her own expectations. The room was modest—plain walls, a single window letting in the muted light of the overcast morning, a desk cluttered with forms and papers left by the last occupant—but to Ruthie, it felt like a threshold between her past struggles and the uncertain promise of her future.
Her heart pounded against her ribcage like a drum, a persistent reminder of the stakes before her. Every few seconds, she adjusted the dress she had hastily chosen the night before, tugging at the fabric, wishing silently it were cleaner, more professional, more… corporate. She knew it wasn't perfect. Her hair, rough and untamed, fell into her eyes with a stubborn persistence despite her frantic attempts to smooth it into some semblance of order.
Around her, the office was coming to life. Coworkers arrived in pairs or small clusters, greeting one another with polite smiles and casual chatter. Some were busy cleaning their desks, dusting off corners, straightening files in neat stacks. Others were rearranging paperwork, checking calendars, and organizing binders, their movements precise, deliberate, as if anticipating the arrival of a boss whose reputation demanded perfection from the very first minute.
Ruthie's gaze flitted over them, taking in every detail—the polished shoes, the neatly pressed skirts, the subtle fragrances, the crisp collars. She felt herself shrink inwardly, painfully aware of the contrast between their careful preparation and her own rough appearance. Anxiety fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird.
He's going to see me like this, she thought, staring at her reflection in the glass of the receptionist desk. My hair is rough… my dress isn't proper… I don't even have proper shoes. He won't employ me. He'll see me and—he'll think I'm unfit, unprepared, unworthy.
Ruthie's thoughts raced, each scenario more terrifying than the last. What if he dismissed her outright? What if her years of struggle, her determination, the tiny sacrifices she had made for her family, were all invisible in the eyes of a man like Dave? She bit her lip, trying to hold back the surge of panic, her stomach twisting into uneasy knots.
Yet beneath the fear, beneath the self-doubt, a quiet ember of determination glimmered. She had waited for this day for years, through minor jobs, endless small tasks, scraping money together, supporting her mother and siblings. She had survived poverty, hardship, and disappointment. She had endured more than most, and that endurance had sharpened her resolve like steel in a fire.
Maybe… maybe he'll see that, Ruthie whispered under her breath, her fingers tightening around her file. Maybe he'll see who I am, not what I'm wearing.
The office moved around her, a world both alien and intoxicating. She observed the female employees, perfectly coiffed, each hair in place, each piece of clothing chosen to communicate professionalism, confidence, and authority. Ruthie's chest tightened as she noticed them—how effortlessly they carried themselves, how their presence seemed to command attention, even in the absence of the boss.
I don't belong here, she thought briefly, a pang of self-doubt stabbing at her resolve. But she pushed the thought away immediately. No. I've been waiting for this moment too long to let fear win. I will sit here. I will endure. I will prove myself.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Ten-fifteen. The office had been alive for over an hour now. Workers moved efficiently, conversations were muted but purposeful, and the atmosphere hummed with a quiet anticipation that seemed to radiate from every corner. And yet, despite the buzz of activity, there was one presence missing—the presence that would change everything: Dave.
The thought of him made her stomach tighten further. She had heard stories—whispers among those who had worked here before. Stories of a man who demanded perfection, who scrutinized every detail, who judged without mercy. The idea of standing before him, of being evaluated in his eyes, made her pulse quicken.
What if he doesn't like me? she wondered, a wave of anxiety washing over her. What if my rough hair, my imperfect dress, my scuffed shoes… what if that's all he sees?
She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, trying to focus on the small victories she had earned: the years of perseverance, the resilience honed through hardship, the countless mornings spent rising before the sun to care for her family. She reminded herself that this file in her hands contained more than papers—it contained proof of her determination, her organization, her hope.
Time dragged, each minute stretching into a lifetime. Ruthie sat upright, shoulders tense, hands clenched around the file, eyes darting occasionally toward the glass doors that would announce his arrival. Every sound—the faint hum of air-conditioning, the shuffle of papers, the subtle murmur of coworkers—heightened her awareness.
Her thoughts raced in a relentless tide:
What will he ask me? What if I can't answer? What if I embarrass myself? What if… he thinks I'm not enough?
Yet alongside the fear, determination pulsed. She had faced worse mornings, mornings when there was no food, no money, no hope. She had faced struggle that would have broken others. She had survived. She would survive this too.
She smoothed the file again, straightened her dress, tugged at her rough hair, and whispered softly to herself:I am ready. I will try. I will not run away. This is my chance, and I will not let it pass.
Around her, the office continued its quiet choreography, unaware of the storm of thoughts behind the receptionist window. The women in corporate attire laughed softly at something one of their colleagues said, arranging files with effortless grace. The men discussed reports and schedules, their voices calm, confident, assured. And Ruthie, sitting on the small chair near the entrance, waited, clutching her file, heart pounding, every nerve alert, every muscle tense with anticipation.
The clock ticked relentlessly toward the hour when the man of the office—the arbiter of opportunity, the enforcer of standards—would arrive. Every second was a test of patience, courage, and endurance. Ruthie's mind replayed the years of struggle, the mornings spent preparing her family, the nights spent worrying and working tirelessly, and she drew from that reservoir of resilience.
Her gaze drifted to the glass doors, imagining the moment he would appear. The stories she had heard about Dave—the arrogance, the sharpness, the unyielding presence—swirled in her mind. And yet, amid the fear and the anticipation, a quiet, resolute thought anchored her:
I have waited this long. I will not falter. I will face him. I will show him who I am.
And as she adjusted the file one last time, smoothing the papers against her lap, Ruthie felt a tiny pulse of calm determination settle in her chest. The door would open soon. The world she had dreamed of was just beyond that glass. And she was ready—or as ready as she could be—to meet it.