A few months ago, my brother asked me for a favor. He knew I was struggling. Always struggling. Single mom, no help, just me and my little girl against the world. He said his friend, Jake, was brilliant. Smart. Experienced. But he kept bombing interviews. Jake just needed someone to open a door. My brother knew I had a leadership role, that I could influence things. He was practically begging. I was skeptical. I’d helped enough friends of friends who turned out to be less than stellar. But I looked at his resume. And wow. He was perfect. On paper, a godsend. Exactly what we needed in my department. And honestly, I had my own, secret reason to root for him: if he got hired, I’d get a referral bonus. Not just any bonus. The bonus. Enough to finally cover my daughter’s school deposit. That payment date was looming, and I had nothing. Absolutely nothing. This bonus was our only chance. My only chance to give her that one good thing.
I coached Jake before the first round. We spent hours on Zoom. I went over every possible question, every scenario. He was sharp, articulate, confident with me. He listened. He took notes. He promised me he’d nail it. He sounded so genuinely grateful. He passed the first round easily. I felt a surge of pride, a wave of hope. This was it. This was actually happening. My daughter’s future, secured. I could almost taste the relief.
Then the final interview came. It was me, my co-worker, and my boss. Jake walked in. He looked… different. Stone-faced. Too calm. He sat down and, without a prompt, said, “Let me tell you a little bit about myself.”
And then… he just kept talking.
Three minutes in, I tried to jump in with a question about his experience with project management. Something relevant. He cut me off mid-sentence, smiled tightly, and kept on about his “unique approach to strategic growth.” My co-worker, bless her, tried a different angle, “Jake, about your team leadership—” Jake held up a hand. “Just a moment. I’m getting there. It’s all connected, you see.” Every time we tried to ask anything, he’d talk over us, subtly, smoothly, but completely, and bring it back to himself. His achievements. His vision. His boundless intellect.
My heart was sinking. No. NO. Not like this. The referral bonus, my daughter’s deposit, it was all swirling away like smoke. I felt panic clawing at my throat. I tried to make eye contact with my boss, a silent plea, but he just watched Jake, unblinking. Fifteen minutes in, my professional composure was a thin veneer over sheer desperation. I was done. This wasn’t an interview; it was a monologue. A terrible, career-ending monologue.
I was just about to end the interview, to politely cut him off and usher him out, when my boss, who had been quiet the whole time, leaned forward. His voice was calm, almost unnervingly so. “Jake, you…”
He paused. And in that silence, I braced myself for the final, humiliating blow. For my boss to say, “You’re clearly not a fit,” or “This isn’t working out.”
Instead, my boss finished his sentence. “Jake, you’re the one who ran off with the investment fund when the community center was dissolved, aren’t you?”
My breath caught. The air left my lungs in a whoosh. The investment fund. The one I’d put everything into years ago. Every penny I’d saved for my daughter’s future, before she was even born, believing it was going to a good cause. The fund that collapsed, taking my life savings with it, leaving me with nothing but debt and a shattered dream. The reason I was even needing this referral bonus for the school deposit in the first place.
Jake froze. The confident smile vanished. His face went ashen. “That money,” my boss continued, his voice now like steel, “was supposed to help struggling single mothers get their kids into good schools.”
I stared at Jake, then at my boss, then back at Jake. My brother’s brilliant friend. The man I’d coached, the man I’d hoped would be my savior. The man who had already stolen my daughter’s future once before. My vision blurred. The referral bonus wasn’t slipping away. It had been ripped from my hands by the same person, twice. The weight of it, the sickening realization. It wasn’t just a lost job opportunity. It was a cruel, devastating punch that echoed a betrayal I thought I had buried. And my brother, my own brother, had brought him right back into my life.
