My CEO Said, “Still Upset with Me?” I answered…
I’m standing in the hallway outside conference room B and my hands won’t stop shaking. Rebecca Stone just asked me a question that’s been hanging in the air for 8 months and I can’t run away this time. Still upset with me, James. Her voice is quiet, almost careful, like she’s afraid of what I might say.
I’m James Hartley, and right now I’m trapped between a woman who deserves answers and a truth that’s going to hurt both of us. Let me tell you how I got here. Eight months ago, Rebecca Stone became the CEO of Meridian Technologies, the software company where I’ve worked for six years. The day she walked through those glass doors in the lobby, I was standing by the coffee machine on the third floor.
Someone said, “That’s our new CEO and I looked down at the atrium below. When I saw her face, my coffee cup slipped right out of my hand. It shattered on the floor, hot liquid spreading across the tile. And my coworker Mark asked if I was okay. I wasn’t okay. I haven’t been okay since because Rebecca Stone isn’t just my CEO.
She’s the sister of Andrew Stone. And Andrew Stone died 4 years ago on a Tuesday morning at 3:15. I know the exact time because I was the one who got the call from the hospital. I was the one listed as his emergency contact at work. I was his supervisor, his manager, the person who made the schedule that put him on the road that night.
The person whose decision killed him. So for 8 months, I’ve been avoiding Rebecca. Every morning when the executive elevator opens on the fifth floor, I’m suddenly very busy in the server room. Every time she walks past my office, I’m on a very important phone call. Every company meeting, I sit in the back row where she can’t see my face.
Every email she sends directly to me, I forward to my team lead and ask him to respond. I’ve become a ghost in my own workplace, haunting the edges of every room she enters, disappearing the moment she looks my way. But today is Friday, and everyone left early for the long weekend. I stayed late to finish quarterly reports, thinking I was safe, thinking Rebecca would be gone like everyone else. I was wrong.
She was waiting in conference room B. And when I walked past, she called my name. Not Mr. Hartley or James Hartley like she uses in emails. Just James. Soft and tired and done with waiting. I stopped walking. Every part of me wanted to keep going, to pretend I didn’t hear, to run like I’ve been running for 8 months.
But my feet wouldn’t move. Can we talk? She asked. Please, I turned around. Rebecca was standing in the doorway of the conference room and she looked different from the polished CEO who runs board meetings and gives company presentations. Her blazer was draped over a chair. Her sleeves were rolled up.
She looked human and sad and like she’d been carrying something heavy for a long time, just like me. I don’t think that’s a good idea, I said. My voice came out rough. Cleared my throat. It’s late. I should go. You’ve been saying that for 8 months. Rebecca didn’t move from the doorway. Every time I try to talk to you, you find a reason to leave.
Every time I schedule a one-on-one meeting, you send someone else. Every time I ask you a direct question, you give me a two-word answer and walk away. I need to know why. I looked at the floor, at the walls, at the emergency exit sign, at the end of the hall, anywhere except at her face. I’m just busy.
The projects have been demanding and I’m trying to keep my team on track. It’s not personal. Don’t lie to me, James. Her voice got harder, sharper. I’ve watched you have full conversations with other executives. I’ve seen you laugh with your team, stay late to help junior developers, spend an hour explaining code to interns. You’re not too busy.
You’re avoiding me specifically, and I want to know why. The quarterly reports in my hands suddenly felt like they weighed 1,000 lbs. I gripped them tighter, using the pain in my fingers to focus on something other than the way Rebecca was looking at me like she already knew the answer but needed to hear me say it out loud. Please, she said again, just 5 minutes.
Then if you want to leave, I won’t stop you. But I can’t keep working like this. Wondering what I did wrong. wondering why my senior project manager treats me like I’m dangerous. She didn’t know. After 8 months, she still didn’t know that I was the reason her brother was dead.
The relief lasted exactly 1 second before the guilt crashed back in because if she didn’t know, that meant I had to tell her. Had to watch her face when she realized the man she’d been trying to reach was the same man who’d sent her brother home exhausted on a rainy night 4 years ago. I walked into the conference room, not because I wanted to, because I owed her this much, because avoiding her was starting to hurt more than facing her.
Because somewhere in 8 months of watching her lead this company with kindness and intelligence, of seeing how hard she worked to make Meridian a better place,I’d started to care about what she thought of me, and that made everything worse. Rebecca closed the door behind us. The click of the latch sounded loud in the empty building.
Through the windows, I could see Seattle skyline lighting up as the sun set. The Space Needle glowed in the distance. Cars moved on the streets below. Normal people going home to normal lives where they didn’t carry the weight of someone’s death every single day. Sit down, Rebecca said. It wasn’t a command. It was almost a plea. I sat.
She sat across from me, and for a long moment, neither of us spoke. I could hear the hum of the air conditioning. the distant sound of a cleaning crew vacuuming somewhere on another floor. The thud of my own heartbeat in my ears. Still upset with me? Rebecca finally asked, “Is that what this is about? Did I do something when I became CEO? Change a policy you disagreed with? Overlook you for a promotion? Because I’ve been going through every interaction we’ve had, every decision I’ve made, trying to figure out what I did to make you hate
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I don’t hate you.” The words came out too fast, too honest. I look down at my hands. That’s not what this is. Then what is it, James? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like hate. Feels like you can’t stand to be in the same room with me. Like looking at me makes you physically ill. She leaned forward.
And I need to know why. I need to know what I did so I can fix it. You can’t fix it. My voice cracked. Nobody can fix it. Try me. I finally looked up, met her eyes. They were brown, warm, nothing like Andrew’s blue ones, but the shape was the same. The way her eyebrows pulled together when she was worried was the same.
The slight tilt of her head when she was trying to understand something was exactly the same. And looking at her hurt so much I almost couldn’t breathe. Looking at you hurts, I said. The truth came out quiet but clear. Every single day, looking at you hurts, and I don’t know how to make it stop. Rebecca’s face went completely still.
Not angry, not confused, just frozen, like I’d said something she’d been half expecting, but hoping she’d never hear. Her hands were flat on the conference table between us. And I watched her fingers curl slowly into fists. What does that mean? Her voice came out barely above a whisper. Looking at me hurts, James. I need you to explain that because I don’t understand.
How can looking at someone hurt? I set the quarterly reports down on the table. My hands were still shaking. So, I pressed them against my knees where she couldn’t see. This was it. The moment I’ve been running from for eight months, for four years, for every single day since I got that phone call from the hospital.
Four years ago, I started then stopped, tried again. Four years ago, I was a project manager for the Atlas integration project. Do you remember that project? Rebecca’s face changed. Something flickered in her eyes. Recognition or fear or both? She nodded slowly. the one that brought in the Chun Corporation account, the project that put Meridian on the map for enterprise clients. Andrew worked on that project.
My chest felt tight. Andrew was the best software engineer on my team. The best I’d ever worked with, actually. He was 26 years old and already solving problems that engineers with twice his experience couldn’t figure out. He volunteered for the hardest tasks. He stayed late when things went wrong. He was brilliant and enthusiastic and he loved what he did.
I know, Rebecca said softly. He used to call me every week and talk about work, about the projects, about the problems he was solving, about you. That hit me like a punch. He talked about me all the time. said, “You were the first manager who actually listened to the team, who fought with the executives when they set impossible deadlines, who cared about people, not just deliverables.
” Rebecca’s voice got quieter. He said, “Working for you made him want to be better at his job.” I had to look away out the window at the darkening sky, at anything except her face. We were 3 weeks from the project deadline. The Chun Corporation was demanding daily progress reports. Our executive team was breathing down my neck about staying on schedule.
We had server integration issues that needed to be fixed immediately or the whole system would fail during the client demo. I could still remember that week like it was yesterday. The stress, the pressure, the way everyone on my team looked exhausted and worn down but kept pushing because we were so close to finishing. I made the schedule. I continued.
I decided who worked which shifts who handled what tasks. We were doing rotating overnight shifts to monitor the servers during integration testing. Two people per night taking turns so nobody had to do it alone. Rebecca hadn’t moved. She was watching me with an intensity that made my skin feel too tight. It was a Tuesday.
Andrew’s shift was supposed to be Thursday, but one of the otherengineers called in sick. His kid had the flu. I needed someone to cover, someone who knew the system well enough to handle problems without supervision. My throat felt like it was closing up. Andrew volunteered. He always volunteered. I asked if he was sure. Told him he’d been working double shifts all week.
Told him he could take a night off, but he insisted. Said he wanted to do it. Said he was fine. Said he could handle it. I forced myself to look at Rebecca again. She needed to see my face when I said this. Needed to see that I understood exactly what I’d done. He worked from 10 at night until 6:00 in the morning.
Fixed the server issues perfectly. Documented everything, left detailed notes for the next shift. At 6:15, he sent me an email saying the problems were solved, and he was heading home to get some sleep. At 6:30, he got in his car and drove toward the interstate. The words were coming faster now. Like once I started, I couldn’t stop.
Like four years of holding this inside was pouring out all at once. He fell asleep at the wheel. The police said it happened on the I5 overpass near the Mercer Street exit. His car drifted right, hit the barrier, went through it, fell 30 ft onto the access road below. Rebecca made a sound small and broken. Her hand went to her mouth.
A truck driver called 911. Paramedics got there in 8 minutes. They said he was already gone. Said the impact was too severe. Said there was nothing anyone could have done. But I know the truth. He was exhausted because of the shift I assigned him. He was driving home because I’d approved his schedule. He fell asleep because I’d worked him too hard. James, Rebecca started.
But I couldn’t let her interrupt. Not yet. Not until she knew everything. The hospital called me at 7:15. I was listed as his emergency work contact because we were in the middle of a critical project. I thought they were calling to say he’d been in a minor accident, maybe needed a ride.
Instead, they told me Andrew Stone was deceased and I needed to come identify him and contact his family. I closed my eyes, but that made it worse because then I could see it all again. the hospital hallway, the smell of antiseptic and coffee, the doctor with tired eyes who kept saying, “I’m sorry.” Like those words meant anything. I drove to the hospital.
They took me to a room and asked me questions about Next of Kin. I gave them your name, your phone number from Andrew’s emergency contact form. I sat in that hallway and listened to them call you. Listened to them tell you your brother was dead. My voice broke. Then you arrived. You came through those hospital doors running and I knew who you were immediately because Andrew had photos of you on his desk.
Pictures of you and him at your college graduation at some family holiday at a Mariners game. He talked about you sometimes about his sister who was working in business development in San Francisco who was brilliant and driven and going to run her own company someday. Rebecca was crying now, silent tears running down her face, but she didn’t look away from me.
I watched you talk to the doctors, watched you collapse when they confirmed it, watched you scream and cry and ask why this happened, what went wrong, how your baby brother could be gone. And I stood there in my work clothes, still wearing my employee badge, and I knew it was my fault. The conference room felt too small, too quiet.
I could hear every breath Rebecca took, could see the way her shoulders shook. The hospital staff asked if I was family. I said, “No, just a coworker.” They asked me to leave so you could have privacy. But before I left, you looked at me just for a second. Your eyes met mine and you asked, “Did you work with Andrew?” I said, “Yes.
” You asked, “Was he happy?” And I told you, “Yes, he loved his job. He was doing great work. He was making a difference.” Because what else could I say? That I’d worked him to exhaustion. That I’d valued a deadline over his safety. That my decisions killed him. Rebecca stood up suddenly, her chair scraping against the floor.
She walked to the window, her back to me, her arms wrapped around herself. “I went back to work 3 days later,” I said to her back. Wrote a resignation letter, took full responsibility for everything. Said I couldn’t work at Meridian anymore knowing what my management decisions had cost, that I didn’t deserve to be in charge of anyone’s safety or well-being.
The executives rejected it. Said the accident wasn’t my fault. Said Andrew made his own choices. Said losing experienced managers wouldn’t bring him back. They put a copy in my file and told me to take two weeks off. I laughed, but it sounded bitter. When I came back, they’d finished the Atlas project with temporary replacements.
We landed the Chun Corporation account. Everyone celebrated like we’d accomplished something amazing. And I stayed because I didn’t know what else to do. Because quitting felt like running away because maybe destroying mycareer wouldn’t actually honor Andrew’s memory. So I kept working, kept managing projects, kept pretending I deserve to be here. Rebecca turned around.
Her face was blotchy from crying. Her eyes red. Then two years later, the board announced a new CEO. They sent a companywide email with your photo and biography. Rebecca Stone promoted from VP of business development effective immediately and I saw your face and knew exactly who you were. Rebecca wiped her face with both hands and said something I never expected to hear.
I know who you are, James. I’ve always known. My brain stopped working for a second. The conference room, the city lights outside. The whole world seemed to tilt sideways. What are you talking about? She walked back to the table but didn’t sit down. Instead, she stood there with her hands gripping the back of her chair like she needed something to hold on to.
When I became CEO, the first thing I did was request every file related to Andrew’s time at Meridian. Every project report, every team assignment, every email, every schedule. I spent 3 weeks reading through four years of his work history. Couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Just sat there while Rebecca kept talking.
I found your resignation letter in the HR files. The one where you took full responsibility for Andrew’s death. The one where you said you didn’t deserve to manage anyone ever again. The one where you blamed yourself for assigning him that shift. She let go of the chair and crossed her arms. I also found the email thread from 2 days before the accident.
The one where you told the executive team that your engineers were overworked and exhausted. where you requested permission to extend the deadline by one week to give everyone rest. Where you warned them that people make mistakes when they’re tired, that pushing too hard could lead to problems. My hands gripped the edge of the table.
I forgotten about that email. Forgotten that I tried to push back, tried to protect my team. The executives said no. Rebecca continued, said the client wouldn’t accept delays. Said everyone needed to push through for just three more weeks. said, “That’s what it takes to win major accounts.” And you replied saying, “You understood, but wanted your objection on record.
” She pulled out her phone, scrolled through something, then read aloud. “I want it noted that I believe the schedule is unsafe, and I’m implementing it under protest. If anything happens to my team members due to exhaustion, the responsibility lies with this decision, not with the engineers who are doing their best under difficult circumstances.
” Rebecca looked up from her phone. You wrote that 2 days before Andrew died. You tried to protect him. The guilt I’d been carrying for 4 years felt different suddenly. Still heavy, still there, but shaped wrong somehow. Like I’d been holding it at the wrong angle this whole time. That doesn’t matter, I said. I still assigned him that shift.
I still let him work when he was exhausted. I still sent him home on that road. Andrew made choices, too. Rebecca’s voice got firmer. I found his response to your email asking if he was sure he could handle the overnight shift. Do you remember what he said? I shook my head. He said, “I appreciate you checking on me, but I got this. I know my limits and I’m nowhere near them.
Besides, someone’s got to save this project. Might as well be me. I’ll sleep when we’re done impressing the Chun Corporation.” She put her phone down. He was an adult, James. He made his own choice to take that shift. You asked if he was okay. You tried to give him an out. He said no, but I was his supervisor.
I should have ordered him to go home. Should have assigned someone else. Should have done something different. My voice rose. I had the power to stop it and I didn’t. And I had the power to tell him no when he called me the week before, asking if I thought he was working too hard. Rebecca’s voice broke. He asked me if I thought he should talk to his manager about the schedule.
I told him that sometimes you have to push through difficult periods to achieve great things. I told him that’s how you build a career. I told him you sounded like a good manager and to trust your judgment. The air went out of my lungs. What? I carry guilt too, James. If we’re assigning blame, if we’re taking responsibility, then I’m just as responsible as you are.
Maybe more because I was his sister. I should have told him to rest. Should have told him his health mattered more than any project. Should have gotten on a plane and dragged him home myself. Rebecca sat down hard in her chair, but I didn’t. I encouraged him to keep pushing. And then 2 days later, I got the call from the hospital. We sat there in silence.
two people who’d been carrying the same weight, blaming ourselves for the same death, avoiding each other because we couldn’t face our own guilt reflected in someone else’s eyes. “So when you became CEO,” I said slowly, “and you saw mehere. You knew. You knew I was Andrew’s manager.
You knew about the resignation letter. You knew everything.” Yes. And you kept me anyway. Promoted me to senior management. Put me in charge of major projects. My voice got louder. Why? Why would you do that when you knew I blamed myself for your brother’s death? Rebecca leaned forward. Because I read something else in those files. I read the performance reviews from every engineer who worked on your team.
They all said the same thing. That you cared about people, that you fought for reasonable schedules, that you made them feel valued and safe, that working for you made them better at their jobs and better people. She pulled out another document from a folder I hadn’t noticed on the chair beside her.
This is from Andrew’s final performance review written one week before he died. The section where employees can give feedback about their managers. He wrote, “James Hartley is the best supervisor I’ve ever had. He treats us like humans, not resources. He pushes back on unreasonable demands. He checks on us when we’re struggling.
If I ever become a manager, I want to be like him. My eyes burned. I looked away, blinking hard. I kept you because Andrew thought you were worth keeping, Rebecca said quietly. I kept you because the investigation into his death concluded it was an accident caused by multiple factors. Not the fault of any single person.
I kept you because firing you wouldn’t bring him back. And I kept you because this company needed managers who actually cared about their teams. and you were one of the few we had. She slid the document across the table to me. But mostly, I kept you because I needed to know if the man my brother admired so much was real.
If the manager who fought for his team, who took responsibility even when it wasn’t entirely his to take, who cared enough to blame himself for 4 years, was someone worth knowing. I picked up the performance review, saw Andrew’s words in his handwriting, saw the date one week before everything ended.
You’ve been trying to talk to me for 8 months. I said, “Yes, and I’ve been avoiding you because I thought you didn’t know. Thought if you found out, you’d hate me.” Rebecca laughed, but it sounded sad. I’ve been trying to talk to you because I thought you hated me. Thought maybe you blamed me for taking the CEO position.
thought maybe seeing me reminded you of Andrew and you couldn’t stand it. It does remind me of Andrew. I admitted every time I see you. The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking, the way you care about details, the way you’re trying to make this company better. And looking at you reminds me of him, too. Rebecca said, “Because you’re doing what he wanted to do, leading projects, mentoring junior engineers, fighting for your team.
You’re living the career he should have had. We looked at each other across the table. Really looked maybe for the first time in 8 months. I found something else in those files, Rebecca said. A proposal you wrote 3 months after Andrew died. A workplace safety initiative recommending mandatory rest periods, limits on consecutive work hours, and regular check-ins for employee exhaustion.
Management rejected it. I remember, I said bitterly. They said it would hurt productivity. I approved it last month. Rebecca’s voice got stronger. Updated it for current needs and made it company policy. Starting next quarter, no Meridian employee works more than 50 hours a week except in genuine emergencies.
No overnight shifts longer than 6 hours. Mandatory wellness checks for anyone on high stress projects. I’m calling it the Andrew Stone Workplace Safety Initiative. My throat closed up completely. I stared at Rebecca and couldn’t find any words. She’d taken my rejected proposal, the one I’d written while drowning in guilt, and turned it into company policy.
Named it after her brother. You did that? My voice came out rough. Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you announce it? Because I was waiting to tell you first. Rebecca stood up and walked around the table. I wanted you to know that Andrew’s death wasn’t meaningless. That something good came from it.
That the safety measures you tried to implement 4 years ago are finally happening. She stopped a few feet away from me, close enough that I could see she’d been crying more than I realized. Her eyes were red and tired and sad. But there was something else there, too. Something that looked almost like hope. I’ve been trying to tell you for 2 months, she continued.
But every time I got close, you’d find a reason to leave. Every time I scheduled a meeting, you’d cancel. I finally realized you weren’t going to stop running unless I made you stop. So, I waited tonight. Waited until everyone left. Waited until you couldn’t escape. I’m sorry, I said. The words felt too small for what I was apologizing for.
I’m sorry for avoiding you. For making you think you did something wrong, for not giving you achance to talk. I’m sorry, too, Rebecca sat on the edge of the conference table. Sorry for not being more direct. For not just telling you I knew about Andrew from the start. For letting you carry guilt alone when I was carrying the same weight.
The Seattle skyline glittered through the windows behind her. Friday night traffic moved below. Somewhere in the building, a door closed. Normal sounds in a world that felt different now. Can I ask you something? Rebecca said, “When you said looking at me hurts, was that the only reason you were avoiding me? I thought about lying. Thought about keeping that last piece of truth to myself. But we’d come this far.
We’d ripped open four years of grief and guilt and pain. What was one more confession?” “No,” I admitted. That wasn’t the only reason. Rebecca waited. Patient like she’d been patient for 8 months. I was also avoiding you because somewhere in those 8 months, I started noticing things like how you remember everyone’s name, even the interns.
How you bring coffee to the security guards on overnight shifts. How you stayed late last month to help the cleaning crew move furniture because their supervisor called in sick and they were short-handed. I looked at my hands. How you’re kind and smart and you’re trying to make Meridian into the kind of place Andrew would have been proud to work at.
How you laugh at bad jokes in meetings to make nervous presenters feel better. How you care about people the same way he did. James, Rebecca said softly, I was avoiding you because I started falling for you. The words hung in the air between us and that felt wrong. Felt like betraying Andrew somehow.
How could I have feelings for his sister when I’m the reason she lost him? How could I think about asking you to coffee when every time you look at me, you’re probably remembering that your brother died because of my decisions. I forced myself to meet her eyes. So, I ran, kept running because staying close to you hurt in two different ways.
It hurt because you reminded me of what I’d done. And it hurt because I wanted to know you better, and I didn’t think I deserved that. Rebecca slid off the table and closed the distance between us. She pulled out the chair next to mine and sat down facing me. I have a confession, too. She said, “I didn’t just keep you here because of Andrew’s performance review.
I didn’t just implement your safety proposal because it was the right thing to do. I did those things because I was falling for you, too.” My heart stopped. “What? I’ve been falling for you since I read that resignation letter. since I saw how much you cared, how much responsibility you were willing to take.
Then I started working here and I saw you with your team. Saw how you mentor people, how you fight for them, how you make them feel valued, saw you staying late to help a junior developer debug code that wasn’t even your project. Saw you bringing lunch for your team when they were too busy to take breaks.
Rebecca’s voice got quieter, and I kept trying to talk to you because I wanted to know if the man I was falling for was someone who could forgive himself enough to let someone in. Someone who could understand that grief doesn’t mean we stop living. That honoring Andrew’s memory doesn’t mean punishing ourselves forever. But I failed him. I said, “I failed you.
You tried to save him.” Rebecca reached out and took my hand. Her fingers were warm, steady. You tried to protect him before the accident. You took responsibility after. You’ve spent four years trying to make sure it never happens to anyone else. That’s not failure, James. That’s love. The word hit me hard. Love.
Not guilt, not responsibility, not penance. Love. Andrew loved working for you, Rebecca continued. Loved this job. Loved solving problems. Loved being part of something bigger. Yes, he died. Yes, it was horrible and unfair and it shouldn’t have happened, but he died doing something he loved, working with people he respected.
And you were one of those people. She squeezed my hand. So when I look at you, yes, I see Andrew. I see his passion, his dedication, his belief that work should matter. But I also see James. I see someone who cares so much he’s been torturing himself for 4 years. Someone who’s kind and thoughtful and strong. Someone I want to know better.
Someone I’m already falling in love with. I don’t know how to do this, I said honestly. How to be with you when every time I look at you. I remember. Then we figure it out together. Rebecca used her free hand to wipe her eyes. We take it slow. We’re honest when it’s hard. We talk about Andrew when we need to.
We let ourselves grieve and heal at the same time. We build something that honors his memory instead of being trapped by it. She stood up and pulled me to my feet. I didn’t become CEO just to run a company. James, I became CEO to make Meridian the kind of place Andrew dreamed it could be. A place where people matter more than profits. Wheremanagers protect their teams.
Where brilliant engineers can do amazing work without sacrificing their health or their lives. The Andrew Stone Initiative. I said, “It’s a start, but I need help. I need someone who understands what we’re trying to prevent. Someone who will fight for these changes even when executives push back. Someone Andrew trusted.
” Rebecca looked up at me. I need you, James, not just as an employee, not just as someone who knew my brother. I need you as a partner in making this company better. And maybe, if you’re willing, as something more. I thought about Andrew, about the last conversation we’d had before that final shift. He’d been excited about the project.
Confident they could solve the problems. Optimistic about the future, he’d said, “After this, I’m taking a week off, going to visit Rebecca, maybe convince her to move back to Seattle. She needs to see what we’re building here.” He’d wanted her to come here. Wanted her to see Meridian to be part of it. And now she was the CEO trying to transform it into something that would protect people instead of using them up.
Maybe this wasn’t betrayal. Maybe this was honoring what Andrew wanted. “Okay,” I said. The word came out shaky but certain. “Okay, let’s try. Let’s build something better here together.” Rebecca smiled and I saw Andrew in it, but I also saw her. Saw the woman who’d been brave enough to take over a company where her brother died.
Brave enough to keep the manager who blamed himself. Brave enough to admit she was falling for someone when it would be easier to keep her distance. It’s going to be hard sometimes. I warned her. There are going to be days when looking at you hurts. When I remember and it feels like drowning. I know, she said. There are going to be days when I look at you and cry because you remind me of everything I lost.
Days when this feels impossible, but we try anyway. We try anyway. She stepped closer because Andrew would want us to try. Would want us to live, to be happy, to build something meaningful. Would want the people he cared about to take care of each other. Pulled her into a hug. She wrapped her arms around me and held on tight.
We stood there in that conference room while the city moved around us while life continued outside our bubble of grief and we let ourselves begin healing. Six months later, we launched the Andrew Stone initiative companywide. Rebecca gave a speech at the all hands meeting about her brother, about workplace safety, about how every employee deserved to go home healthy at the end of their shift.
I stood beside her and added the statistics, the research, the concrete changes we were implementing. Afterward, a junior engineer approached me. Young kid, maybe 25. I just wanted to say thank you, he said. My last company, I was working 80our weeks and my manager didn’t care. Here, my team lead actually checks on me.
Actually tells me to go home when I’m tired. It makes me want to work harder because I know someone values me as a person. I shook his hand and thought about Andrew. Thought about how he’d wanted to make a difference, wanted his work to matter. Maybe this was his legacy, not his death, but the changes that came after. A year after that conversation in conference room B, Rebecca and I stood together at Andrews grave on what would have been his 31st birthday.
We brought flowers and told him about the initiative, about the lives it was already saving, about the culture shift happening at Meridian. He’d be proud of you, Rebecca said, leaning against me. Of both of us. I hope so, I said. I know so, she took my hand. because we turned his loss into something that protects others. We didn’t let his death be meaningless.
2 years after that night, Rebecca and I got married in a small ceremony. On my lapel, I wore a small pin with Andrew’s initials. In her bouquet, Rebecca carried a photo of her brother. He was there with us, part of our story, part of our future. Not a ghost we were running from, but a memory we honored by living fully, by loving completely, by building something better.
Looking at Rebecca still reminds me of Andrew sometimes. But now when I see his passion in her eyes, his dedication in her work, his kindness in her smile, it doesn’t just hurt, it also heals. Because we’re proof that grief doesn’t have to destroy you. That guilt can transform into purpose. That the people we’ve lost can inspire us to be better, to do better, to love harder.
We’re proof that sometimes the person you’re most afraid to face is exactly the person you need. That looking at your pain doesn’t mean staying trapped in it. That healing isn’t about forgetting. It’s about finding someone who understands your scars and says, “Let me help you carry that weight until we’re both strong enough to transform it into something beautiful.
” And every day, Rebecca and I choose to look at each other. Choose to remember, choose to honor Andrew by living the kind of lifehe would have wanted for us. A life filled with purpose, with love, with the courage to turn tragedy into change. Because that’s what love is after loss. is choosing to face what hurts. It’s choosing to heal together.
