Daughter Shamed Her Mom for Being Poor, So I Decided to Teach Her a Life Lesson

When I saw a new employee, Brooklyn, berating a cleaning lady in the office lobby, I was disturbed, but what I discovered later shook me to the core. That encounter led me to plan something around the company's charity ball that Brooklyn would never forget.

You can call Ilan. I'm 42, a senior executive at a very well-known company, but I won't mention its name. I've been there for more than 15 years, and that's long enough to know how to read people in the corporate world.

Still, what happened last week was unexpected. I was walking through the lobby of our office building, having just returned from an important meeting at another place, when I saw our new employee. She'd been here just a month.

I remembered her name, Brooklyn, because she was eager and ambitious. I wasn't her direct boss, but she still managed to introduce herself to me. She also said she was open to more opportunities, overtime, and to learn about new projects.

Don't get me wrong. That's a good attitude in this business, but I got the sense that she was too much. Something about her demeanor didn't sit quite right with me. I didn't mean inappropriately or like she was coming on to me, but I still decided to stir clear as much as possible.

Yet, I heard her voice, and it was nothing like how she'd talk to me.

"What the heck have you done?! I'll make sure you're fired from here," Brooklyn snapped at a nice cleaning lady with the sharpest, most cutting voice.

The older woman stood there in her uniform, clutching her supplies, while her head bowed low as she nodded. She looked like she wanted to disappear.

Despite my instinct to stay out of other people's business, I couldn't ignore that helplessness.

I stepped closer and asked calmly, "What's going on here?"

Brooklyn froze and her face lost all color as she turned to me. "Oh, nothing, just a small mistake, Mr. Aviv," she stammered, plastering on a fake smile. "We settled it, don't worry."

Before I could press her further, she used her hands and practically forced me toward the elevators.

"Mr. Aviv, let me show you the draft I worked on," she said in a syrupy tone that reminded me of nails on a chalkboard.

I wasn't appeased. I didn't like when others were treated disrespectfully, and while this employee babbled in the elevator, I couldn't shake the image of the cleaning lady standing there, shoulders hunched, trying to hold herself together.

But it wasn't like I could do anything about it, so I tried to take it off my mind while Brooklyn talked my ear off on the ride up.

As soon as the elevator opened to the office, I walked out and practically ran from her. She huffed behind me, and I rolled my eyes.

Later that day, as I was heading home, I saw the cleaning lady again. She was leaving the building, and although she wasn't as hunched as earlier, her posture was still weary. Her eyes were also red and puffy like she'd been crying.

Once again, I should've minded my business, but I now felt invested.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I said gently as I approached her. "Can I ask if everything's alright?"

She turned to me, startled, and quickly wiped her face with trembling fingers. "Oh, it's nothing," she said softly, but the way her voice cracked told a different story.

"I was in the lobby earlier," I explained. "I saw what happened. Are you sure everything is alright?"

She hesitated, her eyes darting around as if she didn't know whether to trust me. Then, finally, she let out a shaky breath. "Yes, sir. That woman, Brooklyn, is my daughter," she admitted, nodding slowly.

I blinked, sure I'd misheard. "Wait. Really?"

She nodded and sighed. "Yes. I've been working here for three years now, mostly nights. When she graduated, I recommended she apply here. Someone in HR owed me a favor. She has always been a little… aggressive."

I barked a laugh and coughed to compose myself. The woman smiled through her tears for a second, but her face quickly went back to morose.

"But now she's ashamed of me," she continued. "She doesn't want anyone to know I'm her mother. She says it'll ruin her reputation here, and while trying to talk to her earlier, I accidentally spilled something on the floor. That only made her angrier."

My stomach churned. Here was a woman who had likely worked herself to the bone, who had probably done everything she could to give her daughter a better life and hell, even helped her daughter find this job, only to be treated like this.

My family didn't have much when I was growing up either, but we valued each other. Hearing this made me feel a sadness I couldn't quite put into words.

"I'm so sorry you're going through this," I said tightly. "You don't deserve that kind of treatment, especially not from your own daughter."

She gave me a faint smile, more out of politeness than anything else, and started to walk away. I stood there, watching her disappear into the crowd, feeling like I needed to do something.

Her daughter needed a reality check.

The next morning, I couldn't focus. My mind kept going back to that conversation. Then, during lunch, I overheard Brooklyn in the break room.

She was gushing about the company's annual charity ball, talking about how it was "the perfect opportunity to network with the right people."

That's when an idea struck me. If Brooklyn was so obsessed with appearances, maybe it was time to remind her what really mattered.

I pulled a few strings to set my plan into motion. First, I discreetly removed Brooklyn's name from the guestlist, so she would only find out about it at the event.

Then, I reached out to her mother. She was hesitant at first, but I explained what I had in mind.

"This isn't about embarrassing her," I assured her. "It's about showing her what's important. You deserve this night. Trust me."

She eventually agreed, though I could tell she was nervous. To make sure she felt comfortable and that my plan went perfectly, I arranged for her to visit a salon and pick out a beautiful dress.

When I picked her up the evening of the ball, she looked stunning. Her hair was styled elegantly, and her dress, simple but tasteful, was perfect for the evening.

"I'm not sure about this," she admitted as we drove to the venue. "I don't belong in places like this."

"You belong here just as much as anyone else. After all, you work for the company," I quipped.

The car arrived right at the front, and it looked like a red carpet Hollywood event. We always went all out for these things because our clients respected luxury and taste over other things.

As we stepped out, several heads turned as I expected. Brooklyn's mother hesitated, but I gave her a reassuring nod and she linked her hand to my arm.

Then we spotted Brooklyn. The moment she saw us, her smile vanished. Her jaw dropped, and she nearly tripped in her heels as she stormed over.

"What is this?" she hissed and looked around worried. "Mom! Why are you here?"

Brooklyn's mother looked down, ashamed again, but I spoke before Brooklyn could say more.

"I invited your mother," I answered with a big smile."Oh, and I used your spot for it. She deserves to be here more than you."

Brooklyn's face turned red. "What? You can't do that. I worked hard to be here. I need this event for MY CAREER! She doesn't!" she yelled and pointed her hand rudely at her mother.

"Hey! Stop it. Who do you think you're talking to? I'm your boss or well, your boss's boss," I said firmly, "and I think your behavior here today and towards your mother is unacceptable. You can't treat people like that, especially not the woman who raised you and helped you get this job. This company values respect, and that includes respect for your family."

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "You don't understand," she finally spat. "It's been so hard to be a janitor's daughter and I -"

"Enough," I interrupted going fully cold. "I was a farmer's and a candy seller's son, and thanks to my parents, I succeeded. I honored them until they died. I don't think our company should keep employing someone who doesn't understand the value of their parents' sacrifice."

Brooklyn's face got even redder and it looked like she was holding back more insults for her own mother.

So I just squeezed the older woman's arm tightly and ushered us forward. "If you'll excuse us," I said as we passed Brooklyn. "Enjoy the sidewalk."

Inside the venue, Brooklyn's mother, who finally asked me to call her Esther, relaxed after a while. Even more, she came out of her shell, mingling with other guests and dancing a little.

By the end of the night, she was laughing with a group of people from work, many of whom actually already knew she was the cleaning lady at our building and saw her simply as another employee.

Yes, that's what I wanted from my people. It didn't matter what title you held. All that mattered was your hard work and values.

When I took Esther home, she begged me not to fire her daughter. A mother's love knew no bounds. But I had a hard conversation with Brooklyn's direct boss the next day, and let's just say, she wasn't anyone's favorite.

Her fate in the company isn't in my hands, though. But I could do something about a Christmas bonus for the janitorial staff and a slight raise for the kind woman who came with me to the party. Wink, wink.

Here's another story: On my 18th birthday, my mom handed me a broom, mocking my dream of becoming an actress by saying I'd end up cleaning streets. But just weeks later, life took an unexpected turn when I found her mopping floors at the local grocery store, revealing a past she had tried to bury.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.