My Coworker Kept Asking for 'Small Favors' – Then I Did Something She Didn't Expect

People like to think workplace exploitation is loud—arguments, slammed doors, HR meetings. Mine came wrapped in polite smiles, exhausted sighs, and a coworker who kept asking for "just a few clicks."

By the time Emily asked me to "just jump on one quick thing," I could already predict the exact rhythm of the message.

Emily (4:58 p.m.): "Hey! Are you free for literally two minutes? 🙏"

I stared at the glow of my monitor. The office around me was winding down — chairs rolling back, and drawers closing. My coffee had gone cold an hour ago, but I kept drinking it anyway.

When I first met Emily, I liked her immediately. She was the kind of person who remembered birthdays and asked questions that sounded like she actually cared about the answers.

"Sorry," she'd said on her first week, balancing her laptop against her hip while digging in her tote bag. "I'm a mess. Two kids. No sleep. You get it."

"I… get the concept," I'd joked.

She laughed, eyes crinkling. "Trust me, you're blessed."

She was polite, and always tired in that socially acceptable way that made you feel guilty for existing at full battery. She had pictures of her kids taped along her monitor. Two little grinning faces missing front teeth — and a color-coded planner.

The first favor was harmless.

Emily: "I'm stuck at the doctor's office. Can you take my call? It's just with Mark from sales."

Me: "Sure."

Emily: "You're saving my life. Seriously."

I did it. I took the call, wrote up the notes, and forwarded them. No one died. The world kept spinning.

Then there was the second.

Emily: "Kindergarten pickup got moved earlier. Can you click 'submit' on my draft? Everything's done. Just a few clicks."

Me: "Okay."

Emily: "I owe you one. Like, big time."

A few clicks became a few paragraphs. A few paragraphs became a full report, because she "couldn't focus" at home, because "the kids were climbing her like furniture," because "her husband was traveling," because "the babysitter canceled," because "life happened."

At 5 p.m., messages would pop up like clockwork.

Emily: "You're still at work anyway. My youngest is sick."

It wasn't phrased as an ask. It was framed as a fact. Like my time belonged to the office by default.

And for a while, I didn't fight it. I told myself I was being kind. I told myself it was temporary. I told myself that a decent coworker would help out.

Then one afternoon, I hesitated.

She'd sent a spreadsheet with half the tabs blank, and a cheery note: "If you can just finish this up, I'll love you forever."

My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Me: "Emily, I can't today. I've got my own deadline."

There was a pause. The little typing bubble appeared… then vanished… then appeared again, like she was choosing her words carefully.

She walked over to my desk instead, then smiled.

"Hey," she said softly, so no one else could hear. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Just… I can't keep doing this."

Emily's smile didn't disappear. It just… tightened. "You don't have kids," she said, still polite. Still soft. "You don't know what real exhaustion is."

Something in my chest went quiet.

After that, I started noticing things I'd trained myself not to see. Emily's "quick questions" weren't questions. They were assignments dressed up in emojis. Her apologies didn't change her behavior — they just made me feel cruel for being annoyed.

And worst of all? No one stopped it. Because from the outside, it looked like teamwork.

On Monday, she breezed in late, hair damp, cheeks pink from the cold. She dropped her bag with a sigh that turned heads.

"Rough morning?" our manager, Lisa, asked.

Emily gave a small laugh. "You know. Breakfast battles. Meltdowns. Someone cried over a banana being 'too yellow.'"

Everyone chuckled sympathetically.

Then Emily's eyes flicked to me, quick as a flashlight beam. "But it's okay. I have help."

I felt my stomach twist.

Later, in the break room, she cornered me near the vending machine. "Look, I didn't mean what I said," she whispered.

I didn't answer right away.

She leaned closer. Her voice lowered. "I'm just… drowning. Okay? I'm not trying to dump on you."

I could smell her perfume — something clean and floral, like expensive soap. It made her seem innocent, which somehow made me angrier.

"Then stop giving me your work," I responded firmly.

Her eyes widened in a practiced way. Hurt and confused. "It's not your work. We're a team."

I let out a laugh that surprised even me. "A team where I do your part?"

Her gaze sharpened, just for a second. Then she sighed, shoulders slumping dramatically. "I thought you understood. But you don't."

There it was again — you don't have kids, unspoken but loud.

I went back to my desk and tried to focus on my own tasks. I really did. But Emily had a way of dropping her workload into my day like glitter. By Wednesday, I had two of her drafts open beside my own report. By Thursday, I stayed late because her charts were wrong, and if I didn't fix them, the whole department would look bad.

By Friday morning, I'd stopped calling them "favors."

And then came the end of the quarter. The air in the office got sharper, people spoke faster, and Lisa paced like she was training for a marathon. Deadlines were a drumbeat in every conversation. At 4:45 p.m., when I was already mentally peeling off my work-face, my screen flashed.

A file appeared in my inbox: "RAW_SALES_DATA_Q4_FINAL_FINAL.xlsx"

Followed by a message.

Emily: "I'm running. Kindergarten schedule changed. You're a pro — 15 minutes for you. I'll owe you one."

I stared at the file name like it was an insult. Then I realized, if I say yes now, I'll be doing her job for months.

My cursor hovered over the reply box. I imagined writing No. Just that. A single syllable.

But I could already see what would happen: the sad eyes, the gentle guilt, the office whispers. "She's a mom." "She's struggling." "Why couldn't you just help?"

I was angry even though I tried to control myself. Instead of replying to her… I did something she absolutely didn't expect. I didn't type No. In fact, I didn't type anything to Emily at all. I opened a new document. A plain, empty file with today's date at the top.

Then I started copying.

Every message. Every "quick thing." Every "just a few clicks." Every "I'll owe you."

I went back weeks. Months. Each request was time-stamped proof of a pattern I'd tried to pretend wasn't happening. I pasted them in order, like beads on a string. And as the list grew, so did a strange feeling in my chest — not rage, not fear.

Clarity.

Then I pulled up my own work log. The one I kept for myself because I'd learned the hard way that memory gets slippery when you're exhausted.

I added notes beside each message:

• "Took call with Mark / wrote summary / emailed follow-up"
• "Completed client reconciliation / corrected formulas / built charts"
• "Finished draft narrative / submitted under department folder"

When I was done, I attached Emily's raw data file.

Then I opened an email — not to Emily.

To Lisa.

Subject line: Quarter-End Coverage Question

My hands shook slightly as I typed, but my words came out calm. Almost polite.

"Hi Lisa, Emily sent over raw Q4 sales data at 4:45 p.m. and asked me to complete and submit her portion. I’m not able to take on additional deliverables today without risking my own deadlines."

"I'm attaching the data file she sent, along with a log of similar requests over the last several weeks so we can clarify expectations around workload distribution and coverage moving forward."

"Thanks, — Grace"

I read it twice, then three times. No accusations, no dramatic language. Just facts, stacked neatly like boxes.

I hit send.

Five minutes later, my phone buzzed.

Emily: "Did you get it???"

Buzz again.

Emily: "Hey, I really need this done."

Buzz.

Emily: "Hello?"

I looked at the clock: 4:53 p.m. For the first time in months, I didn't feel the reflex to scramble.

I stood up and slid my laptop into my bag.

The motion felt almost illegal, like leaving on time was something only certain people were allowed to do. As I walked toward the elevator, my phone buzzed again.

This time it was a call.

Emily.

I let it ring.

The doors closed with a soft, decisive sigh. In the lobby, the security guard nodded at me. "Early today," he said, friendly.

"On time," I corrected, and my voice came out steadier than I expected.

Outside, I breathed in deeply, like I'd been underwater for weeks.

Then my phone lit up with a new message.

Not from Emily. From Lisa.

Lisa: "Can you come by my office first thing Monday morning?"

My stomach dipped — but it wasn't panic. It was adrenaline. The kind you feel right before a curtain rises.

Monday came too fast. At 9:02 a.m., Lisa's door opened.

"Come in," she said.

Her face was unreadable. Not angry, not warm. Just… managerial.

I sat, hands folded.

Lisa glanced at her screen, then back at me.

"I read your email," she said.

I nodded. "Okay."

She tapped a pen against her desk. "Why didn't you bring this up earlier?"

"Because," I said carefully, "I didn't think it would matter. And because every time I tried to set a boundary, it got framed as me lacking empathy."

Lisa's expression flickered — something like understanding or maybe guilt.

She slid a paper across the desk. It was printed. My message log. Stapled and highlighted.

"I spoke to Emily," Lisa said.

My throat tightened. "And?"

Lisa hesitated, then said, "She told me you offered."

I blinked. "I… what?"

"She said you insisted on helping because you had 'more flexibility.'" Lisa's tone was neutral, but her eyes weren't. "She also said you don't mind staying late."

I leaned forward slightly. "Did she mention the part where I told her no? Or the part where she said I don't know real exhaustion?"

Lisa's mouth tightened, "No."

I exhaled slowly. "Right."

Lisa stood and walked to the window, looking out at the parking lot as if it held answers.

"When I hired Emily," she said quietly, "she was… very convincing. She talked a lot about resilience. About needing stability for her kids."

I didn't speak.

Lisa turned back. "And you—" she paused, choosing her words, "—you've been reliable. You don't complain. You get things done."

Reliable. The word that sounds like praise until you realize it's a leash.

Lisa sat again. "I'm going to reassign the Q4 deliverables. And we're going to have a conversation as a team about workload boundaries."

I nodded once. "Okay."

Then Lisa added, almost casually, "Also… there's another thing. Emily's been in my office twice asking about the senior analyst role."

My pulse spiked. "The one that wasn't posted yet?"

Lisa's eyebrows lifted slightly, as if impressed I'd noticed. "Yes."

The room went very still. And suddenly, everything clicked into place.

Emily's favors weren't just about survival; they were a ladder built out of my hours.

Lisa watched me carefully. "Were you planning to apply?"

I held her gaze and smiled. "I already did," I said.

Lisa blinked. "You—"

"I applied two weeks ago," I continued, voice calm. "And I accepted the offer on Friday."

Silence dropped like a curtain.

Lisa's mouth parted slightly. "You're leaving."

"Yes."

The shock on her face wasn't what satisfied me. It was the quiet relief blooming in my own chest, like sunlight through blinds.

Lisa exhaled, then nodded slowly, as if recalculating a reality she'd misread. "Why didn't you tell me?"

I stood, lifting my bag strap onto my shoulder. "Because," I said, and my voice softened, "I didn't want another meeting about how I should be more understanding."

I walked to the door, then closed it slowly behind me.

When I stepped back into the hallway, I saw Emily, my manipulative colleague, standing near her desk, phone in hand, eyes scanning for me. When her gaze landed on mine, her face brightened with that familiar grateful-mom smile.

She started walking toward me.

I didn't wait.

I turned the other way, headed toward my desk, and for the first time in months, my steps felt light.

When kindness starts costing you your time, your peace, and your worth, at what point does it stop being kindness?