I slipped on a wet floor and broke my leg at work. I went to HR for compensation. They noted it, but nothing happened.
One night, my boss called, “Let’s meet privately.” I froze when I found out what he emailed all employees before our meeting: “No liability accepted regarding the incident involving Ms. Cartwright. All staff are reminded to tread carefully, and wear appropriate footwear.”
My name—thrown out like a warning label.
No mention of the unmarked floor. No apology. Just a dig, and a cold shift of blame.
I read the email three times, fingers shaking, wondering if anyone else noticed how blatantly wrong it was. The meeting took place at a corner table in a dimly lit bar two blocks from our office. My boss, Neil Ford, smiled like we were old friends.
“We can’t afford a claim right now, Holly. The company’s just recovering. You understand.”
“I broke my leg,” I said, staring him down.
“The floor was wet. There was no sign. And I was carrying two boxes you assigned me to take down.”
Neil’s expression didn’t flinch.
“You’ll be taken care of. Quietly. We can approve some paid leave, no legal drama.”
He slid a napkin toward me.
A number was scribbled on it. “We’re offering this as a goodwill gesture.”
$2,500. That was his idea of “goodwill” for a snapped bone, three months of crutches, and hospital bills that already went past seven grand.
I folded the napkin and tucked it into my coat. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”
Truth is, I already knew what I’d do.
But I needed time. Over the next week, I walked into work with a limp, a metal brace, and a mission. I kept my head down.
Smiled at everyone. Acted like I was letting it go. I wasn’t.
A colleague, Renata, whispered to me at the vending machine. “That email wasn’t okay. You know that, right?
I saved a screenshot. In case you need it.”
I squeezed her hand. “Keep it safe.”
Behind Neil’s smug smile and “friendly” meetings, he’d been telling the rest of the team I was clumsy.
That I’d ignored the signs. That I was looking for a payday. I heard it all in whispers, saw it in the side-eyes.
But I kept showing up. What they didn’t know is that I’d already spoken to a lawyer. Quietly.
A friend’s cousin, legal aid specialist named Barry. Not some slick-suited bulldog. Just someone who cared about justice.
He took one look at the photo I’d snapped of the unmarked puddle, and the email Neil sent, and said, “You’ve got a case.”
“I don’t want to sue,” I told him. “I just want them to take responsibility.”
Barry nodded. “Then we go the route they hate the most.
Let the Labor Board know. And if that doesn’t work, we tell the press.”
Two days later, I filed the formal complaint. Neil didn’t see it coming.
When HR called me in, there were three people at the table. One was the HR director, one was Neil, and one was someone from corporate legal. I was expecting to be shut down, but what I walked into… was panic.
The HR director looked pale. “We were unaware of the email you mentioned.”
“I brought a printout,” I said, sliding it across the table. “And the photo.
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