I work in sales. A top rep refused to help me, I lost a sale. Later, I left for a new position. The same girl joined our team. I treated her the same way, saying, “Sorry, not in my job description.” To my surprise, my boss told me, “From now on, your job description includes being a decent human being.”

The words hit me like a slap to the face. I stood there, blinking, trying to process what she just said. It wasn’t loud or angry—it was calm. Disappointed. That was worse, somehow.

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. My boss, Trina, just raised an eyebrow and walked away. I felt my face heat up.

Her words kept echoing in my head the rest of the day.

I’ll admit something: when I saw her walk into the office that Monday morning—glossy resume in hand, fake polite smile—I felt something twist in my chest. Her name was Kayla. And she’d once made me feel like an idiot.

Back when I was new at my old company, I’d struggled hard with closing my first few deals. The learning curve was brutal. I remember asking her if she could hop on a quick call with me to explain how she structured her demos.

She looked me up and down, barely smiled, and said, “That’s not in my job description. You’ll figure it out.”

And I didn’t figure it out, not fast enough. I lost a big sale, got chewed out, and spent two days doubting whether I was even cut out for sales.

Eventually, I moved on to another company, got better, and worked my way up. I didn’t forget, though.

So when she joined my new team, part of me saw it as poetic justice. I didn’t yell or snap. I just smiled the same fake smile she’d given me, and said the same line she’d used on me. “Sorry, not in my job description.”

Only now, my boss had called me out.

Later that evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I sat in my apartment with a microwaved burrito and my laptop open, not really doing anything. Just staring.

Was I being petty? Sure. Was I wrong? I didn’t think so—until now.

The next morning, Kayla didn’t look at me when she walked in. She kept her head down, sat at her desk, and quietly set up her workstation. A part of me expected her to throw a sarcastic comment my way, like before. But she didn’t.

During our lunch break, I saw her sitting alone in the break room, scrolling through her phone, not eating. I don’t know why, but something about that image didn’t sit right.

Trina passed me in the hallway and gave me a look. Not angry, not smug. Just… knowing.

That’s when I started to notice things.

Kayla was different now.

She didn’t brag like before. Didn’t strut around the office like she owned the place. When the others talked shop in a group, she stayed quiet. When someone made a joke, she gave a polite smile, but never chimed in.

On Friday, I overheard her on the phone. She was trying to close a deal, and her voice was nervous. She fumbled a few times. I could tell it wasn’t going well.

And for some reason, it didn’t feel satisfying. It felt familiar. Like I was watching a past version of myself.

That weekend, I kept thinking about what Trina said: “Your job description includes being a decent human being.”

Was I?

I thought about it again Monday morning, when I saw Kayla struggling to get the printer to work. Papers were flying everywhere, and she looked flustered.

I almost walked past. Almost.

But something made me stop.

“You have to hold the tray down when you reload it,” I said.

She looked up, surprised. “Oh. Thanks.”

I shrugged. “Printers are evil. Everyone knows it.”

She let out a small laugh. “I think it hates me.”

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Later that day, she hesitated by my desk.

“Hey, I don’t want to bother you, but… do you have a moment to look over this script? I think I’m rambling too much in the intro.”

I stared at her for a second. The last time I’d asked her for help, she brushed me off. And here she was, doing what I hadn’t done for her.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. Let’s take a look.”

We spent twenty minutes going over her call opener. I offered a few suggestions. She was surprisingly receptive, taking notes and asking good questions.

She didn’t act like a know-it-all. She looked… grateful.

By the end of the week, she’d landed her first small client. She brought in donuts that Friday, saying it was a “thank you” to the team.

There was one with pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles. My favorite. I didn’t tell her that, but somehow she knew.

Trina walked past our desks and smirked. “Look at that. Human decency pays off.”

I grinned, a little embarrassed. “Guess so.”

Weeks passed. Kayla slowly found her groove. She still had a lot to learn, but she asked for help when she needed it—and now, I gave it freely.

We even started eating lunch together. Not every day, but often enough that the others noticed.

“Didn’t you two used to hate each other?” one coworker asked, half-joking.

Kayla and I looked at each other. She smiled. “We had a rocky start.”

I nodded. “But we figured it out.”

The real twist came a month later.

We had a regional sales competition—whoever landed the highest revenue by the end of the quarter got a bonus and an all-expenses-paid weekend trip to Napa.

I was doing well. Like, really well. My pipeline was strong, I had a couple big deals on the edge of closing, and I felt confident.

Then one of my leads went cold.

They ghosted me for a full week. I followed up, called, emailed—nothing. It was frustrating because it was the deal that could’ve secured my lead in the competition.

I vented about it during lunch, more annoyed than worried. But the days went by, and the silence continued.

Then, a miracle. They emailed back on a Tuesday afternoon, saying they were still interested, just needed clarity on one feature. They asked if I could hop on a call that evening.

I was thrilled.

Then I got the flu.

And I don’t mean a sniffle—I mean flat on my back, shivering, sweating, barely able to speak flu.

I tried to get up and push through. My voice cracked like an old door. I looked in the mirror and saw a zombie.

I panicked.

The call was in two hours. I needed this sale.

And then, without thinking, I did something I never thought I’d do.

I called Kayla.

“Hey,” I croaked. “I need a favor.”

She listened carefully as I explained. I told her everything about the client, the features, their concerns—every detail.

She didn’t hesitate.

“I got you,” she said.

She hopped on the call for me, introduced herself as my colleague stepping in temporarily, and delivered the pitch exactly how I laid it out. I listened in, muted, on the couch with a fever, amazed at how well she handled it.

She closed the deal.

The next day, Trina sent an email congratulating me on winning the competition. The trip to Napa was mine.

And so was the bonus.

I walked into the office, still pale and recovering, and saw Kayla at her desk. She looked up and smiled. “You made it.”

I sat next to her. “You closed that deal. You saved my butt.”

She shrugged. “You helped me get started. I figured it was time to return the favor.”

I handed her a small envelope. “This is half the bonus. You earned it.”

Her eyes widened. “I can’t take this.”

“You will,” I said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

She looked like she might cry for a second, then smiled and took the envelope.

We didn’t become best friends or anything dramatic. But we became a team.

Months later, Trina pulled me aside during a review.

“You’ve grown a lot,” she said. “I was a little worried at first. You had a chip on your shoulder.”

I chuckled. “Yeah. I remember.”

“But you got over it,” she continued. “That’s rare.”

I thought about it. The truth was, I hadn’t just gotten over it—I’d grown because of it. Because someone had once treated me like I didn’t matter, and I’d almost let that become who I was too.

But I didn’t.

I chose differently.

What goes around really does come around. Not always in the timing or way we expect—but it does.

Kayla never apologized directly for what happened back then. She didn’t need to. Her actions said enough.

And honestly? Mine did too.

Life’s weird. People change. Sometimes, they deserve a second chance. Sometimes, we do.

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