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It happened by accident.
One afternoon, I came home earlier than usual. The house was calm, filled with the comforting smells of dinner simmering on the stove. Lina was at the table, her bag open, carefully writing in a small, worn notebook. She looked up, startled, as if I had walked in on something private.
I told her it was fine—but curiosity lingered. Later, gently, I asked what she had been writing. She hesitated, then smiled in a way that felt both shy and proud.
She told me she was writing stories.
Not notes. Not lists.
Stories.
Every evening after work, she wrote. Sometimes late into the night. Short stories, reflections, fragments of memories from her childhood. She had always dreamed of being a writer, she said, but life had other plans. Bills came first. Family responsibilities followed. Writing became something she carried quietly, like a secret garden no one else knew about.
I was stunned.
Here was someone I had mentally categorized—without realizing it—by a single role. “Help.” “Employee.” “Support.” And yet inside her lived a whole world of imagination, discipline, and unexpressed talent.
She showed me one piece.
Not polished, not perfect, but deeply human. It spoke of resilience, of watching the world closely, of noticing small details others rush past. I realized then that the very qualities that made her so good at her job—patience, attentiveness, care—were the same qualities that made her writing special.
That day changed something in me.
I became more aware of how easily we flatten people into functions: the person we hire, the service we receive, the role they play in our lives. We rarely stop to ask who they are when no one is watching. What dreams they’ve postponed. What talents are waiting quietly for space to grow.
I didn’t “save” Lina. This isn’t that kind of story. She didn’t need rescuing. What she needed—what we all need—was recognition.
Encouragement.
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