The Moment You Realize You Really Screwed Up
On Monday, Thessa landed a cheerful email in my inbox that felt like a punch straight to the stomach. She reminded me that the multilingual catalogue we regularly prepare for one of our longtime clients was supposed to be heading to print soon.
I figured she’d sent it to me by mistake—out of habit.
So I fired back a quick reply without thinking, adding a little humor, saying it must be nice to have time for things like that.
To my complete shock, she responded with a long lecture explaining that when I’d planned the telecom project, I should’ve factored this into my schedule too. She also pointed out that while she appreciated humor, she was honestly surprised by the immature and disrespectful tone I sometimes allowed myself to use with my boss.
I had to read the email over and over before I could believe what I was seeing.
At first, it was the coldness in her words that hurt.
The realization came later.
And when it hit, it hit hard.
Suddenly I remembered our first meeting about the project.
Back then, all four of us—including the twins—were sitting in Thessa’s glass office. I even remember what she was wearing: a satin dress in a vivid shade of green. She smelled faintly of powder—soft and clean. I remember wanting to bury my face in her neck just to breathe her in from up close.
And yes—she had warned me.
“Emily, plan your hours assuming everyone keeps their regular clients. Especially Ben, the boat dealer. Nobody can take over his work overnight. If you’re thinking of handing him off to another translator, start that process now.”
The twins didn’t have that problem. They had no clients specifically assigned to them. They always got whichever translation jobs came with the longest deadlines.
Meanwhile, I’d had this catalogue hanging over my head for years.
I actually liked working on it, but it was stressful as hell.
It showed up every year like clockwork, like a tax audit or some natural disaster.
And of course, it wasn’t just translation work.
At the end always came the endless tiny text edits, the formatting, the corrections, and the inevitable chaos.
And somehow—for reasons I still can’t explain—I planned six months of the telecom project as if this thing simply didn’t exist.
I think part of me was thinking: we’re only applying for six months, and I only have one major personal project each year.
Which would’ve made sense—except apparently it never occurred to me that I’d also taken on the workload of two other people during exactly that same period.
I started sweating the second I remembered that smug little grin I’d had after hearing about the triple salary.
That arrogance.
Talking to myself in the bathroom mirror.
Smirking to myself:
God, Thessa’s such a sucker.
She’s throwing a ridiculous amount of money at me just to get me to say yes.
And now I have absolutely no fucking idea what I’m supposed to do.
Both of my damn clients are covered by confidentiality agreements. I can’t just hand them over to someone else. Maybe one of my coworkers. Quietly. Under the table. And probably for an obscene amount of money. Then I’d get to spend the rest of my life panicking about when Thessa would find out.
Yeah.
No thanks.
That pretty much killed my Monday.
It took me hours to pull myself together enough to do anything remotely productive. I kept stubbornly holding on to the hope that by next week Thessa would somehow find someone to take over for me.
I ended that awful evening with three gin and tonics. The room was spinning when I finally went to bed. Never in my life did I think I’d end up getting drunk alone in my little diary-writing armchair.
The next day I called Adele.
Luckily, I remembered her boss had given her Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons off, so she was actually happy I’d called right when she was on her way home on the train.
“Emily, stop messing around and grow a spine,” she said the second I finished explaining everything. “You screwed up. Fine. That part’s done. But you can still decide whether you’re about to make things ten times worse.”
The words came flying out of her like machine-gun fire.
And like always, I just sat there quietly taking it.
“Don’t call her. Don’t text her. That’s useless. Go see her. Sit down, look her in the eye, and tell her she’s the boss—so help you figure this mess out,” she said. “Apologize. Admit you screwed up. Tell her you’ll take whatever consequences come.”
“What if she fires me?” I whined.
“Are you kidding? She’d have to be insane to fire a hardworking, obedient overachiever like you.”
Her words landed with painful precision.
Was I really like that?
Really?
“Adele… seriously?” I asked quietly. “That’s how you see me?”
“Oh my God, Emily, don’t start being dramatic now. You know what I mean. You’re exactly like me. We both work ourselves into the ground. That’s just how we are. Some people start businesses and work for themselves. We kill ourselves working for somebody else.”
“Yeah, but only until you pass the bar. Then you’ll have your own practice.”
“Ugh,” she muttered impatiently. “Still gotta get there first.”
I just let out a breath. There wasn’t much to say.
“Want me to bring you lunch tomorrow?” another version of Adele asked.
The lawyer disappeared. The caring friend took over. And somehow I suddenly stopped caring how overwhelmed I was.
“Only if we eat together.”
“If you want, we’ll have a proper lunch. Dave’s sending the menu over tomorrow morning. I’ll pick something good.”
“Sounds nice.”
“I could use some peace and quiet with you too,” she sighed.
A strange feeling hit me. Not because of Adele. Dave’s face suddenly popped into my head. And a chill ran through me.
*
I was glad I’d have company.
Since I absolutely did not want to accidentally run into Karate Dad—especially after I’d started feeling that deeply embarrassing pull low between my legs every time I thought about him—I hadn’t dared leave the apartment.
My version of fresh air still consisted of doing twenty squats on the balcony a few times a day. Although I could already tell my butt was getting firmer. What I wasn’t expecting was one of the most uncomfortable lunches of my life with my best friend.
“If some bitch started making moves on your boyfriend, what would you do?” Adele asked after swallowing her second bite of salmon wrap and sweet potato fries.
My throat tightened with surprise—and sudden realization.
Oh.
That’s why I’d had that weird feeling about Dave. He’s definitely sleeping with his new assistant.
“Did they get caught?”
“Who?”
“Dave and his assistant.”
“What?” she snapped. “Jesus, Emily, are you serious? That bitch is completely into him, but Dave would never, ever touch her.”
“Okay, okay,” I backtracked. “I thought they got together or something.”
Adele transformed into a mother tiger in an instant. Her face twisted with anger and disbelief.
“Got together? Jesus! He’d never cheat on me. Dave? Seriously? How could that even cross your mind? You know how good we are together. He’s never loved anyone the way he loves me.”
“I know,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean—I just would’ve been surprised…”
I tried to explain the unexplainable. I don’t know whether she can sense that instinctive disgust I feel toward Dave. I don’t want to hurt Adele. So I can’t tell her that a bigger asshole has probably never walked this earth. She doesn’t belong with some arrogant blowhard. She deserves someone kind. Some university professor who adores his smart, fearless lawyer girlfriend and doesn’t mind letting her use him as an emotional punching bag every now and then.