The office was charged with tension. The company was undergoing restructuring, and layoffs were looming. Maria, her usual cheerful face etched with a worry she couldn’t hide, was the one who’d delivered the bad news to their team.
Across the room, John listened intently, seeing her face was flushed, her hands clenched. He noticed a familiar tightness in his own chest. He knew the burden of delivering bad news.
He remembered, years ago, being a camp counselor at Camp Sunshine and having to inform a group of sobbing children that the camp had to close.
After the meeting, he found her sitting alone at her desk, staring blankly at the computer screen.
He walked over, his footsteps soft on the carpet. "Rough day?" he asked quietly.
She jumped, startled.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice husky.
“Camp Sunshine?” he offered, remembering how he felt during that closing.
Her eyes met his, and a wave of unspoken connection passed between them. A tiny smile appeared. "I was there too," she whispered. "Remember the talent shows?"
They sat together and talked, sharing stories of the camp, of the children, and of the unique vulnerability that such a place can foster. He felt her shift, her shoulders seemed to relax.