The lobby of Ellison Global Headquarters in Chicago gleamed with polished marble floors and towering glass windows. On a Tuesday morning, when executives in sharp suits streamed in and out with their badges flashing, no one expected disruption. But then the revolving doors spun, and a little girl in a pink dress, no older than eight, stepped inside.
She clutched a small canvas backpack, her hair neatly tied in two braids. She walked with a surprising steadiness, though her feet were clad in worn-out sneakers. The security guard, James, looked down at her and frowned.
“Sweetheart, are you lost?” he asked, crouching a little.
The girl straightened her back, lifted her chin, and said, loud enough for a few people nearby to hear:
“I’m here to interview for my mother.”
The sentence hung in the air. Conversations in the lobby slowed. A receptionist raised an eyebrow. A man with a briefcase chuckled nervously, thinking it must be some kind of joke. But the girl didn’t smile.
James blinked. “What’s your name?”
“Clara Wilson,” she replied firmly. “My mother’s name is Angela Wilson. She applied for the senior analyst position. She couldn’t come. So I came instead.”