Darnell sneered when he saw the few gray streaks in my hair.
“You look like an old lady just sitting around,” my husband said, and walked out the door to his young thing.
When he came back later for his papers and found my note, his face went white.
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Aisha Harmon was climbing the stairs to the fourth floor, slow and heavy-footed. The elevator in her downtown Chicago condo complex had been busted for the third straight week. In her right hand, she gripped a scuffed leather briefcase holding her blueprints. In her left, a bag of groceries from the local market—milk, bread, something for dinner. She couldn’t even recall exactly what she’d managed to grab off the shelves during the ten minutes she’d rushed through the store on her way home.
On the third-floor landing, Aisha stopped to catch her breath. It had been a rough day. The meeting with the plant CEO had stretched past 7:00 in the evening. Then she’d stayed late afterward to finalize the calculations for the new production line modernization project. Mr. Charles Peterson, the CEO of Midwest Steelworks, had hinted this morning that a competition for the head of the advanced engineering division would be announced soon, and her candidacy was being seriously considered.
But right now, standing on this stairwell with peeling paint on the walls, Aisha felt nothing but bone-deep exhaustion.
She fumbled for her keys, opened the door, and immediately sensed the tension in the air.
Darnell was home.
His jacket was hanging on the coat rack, and the sound of the TV came from the living room.
“Why are you so late?” His voice rang out before Aisha even had time to kick off her heels.
He appeared in the doorway of the living room, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatpants. His face was set in a scowl, his brows furrowed.
“I got held up at work.” Aisha walked into the kitchen, placing the grocery bag on the counter. “We had a meeting. Did you eat dinner?”
“No. I thought you were going to cook.”
Aisha silently pulled the chicken out of the bag and started unpacking the rest of the groceries. Her hands moved automatically, even though her entire body was begging for a rest.
“I’ll make something quick,” she said quietly. “About forty minutes and it’ll be ready.”
Darnell walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a beer. The can hissed open.
“Forty minutes,” he repeated with a sneer. “I got home at 6:00. I’ve been waiting two hours and you’re still messing around at that factory.”
Aisha felt a familiar clenching deep inside. She knew that tone.
This was the start.
“But I already explained—” She turned on the water and started washing the chicken. “We have an important project. The CEO wants—”
“Your CEO. Your project,” Darnell interrupted. “What about the house? What about the family? Look at yourself.”
Aisha involuntarily looked up. Darnell stood leaning against the doorframe, studying her with a cold, critical gaze.
She instinctively glanced at her own reflection in the dark glass of the kitchen window. A tired face, hair messed up from the day, dark circles under her eyes.
“I’m just tired,” she said. “I look fine.”
“Fine?” Darnell scoffed. “Look at what’s going on with your hair.”
Aisha mechanically raised a hand to her head, brushing a stray lock from her forehead. That’s when she saw it. Near the roots, a pale streak glinted in the window’s reflection.
She turned to the mirror in the hallway, visible from the kitchen, and stared.
Thin, silvery streaks were visible at her temples, mixed in with her dark brown hair.
Gray.
When did that happen?
She hadn’t noticed it before. Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to.
“You’ve sat down and grown old,” Darnell stated, taking a long sip from his can.
There was no sympathy or warmth in his voice—only something akin to disgust.
“Just turned into an old lady.”
The words hung in the air.
Aisha froze, her hands wet over the sink.
An old lady.
She was only forty-two years old. Forty-two. A couple of gray streaks and she was an old lady.
“What did you say?” she asked quietly, not believing she had heard him correctly.
“Exactly what I said.” Darnell slammed the can down on the counter with a dull thud. “You’ve sat down and become an old lady. Look at yourself, Aisha—always tired, run down, and now you’re gray, too. I’m forty-five and I feel like I’m sixty when I’m next to you.”
“Darnell, what does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with it.” He raised his voice. “I don’t want to live with an old lady, okay? I just don’t.”
Aisha stepped back, leaning her spine against the kitchen cabinet. Her heart was hammering somewhere in her throat.
Twenty years.
Twenty years they’d been together.
Twenty years.
“You’re just saying this because you’re tired,” she managed to push out. “Let’s just have dinner and talk calmly. You don’t really mean that.”
“Oh, I mean it. All right.”
Darnell turned and headed for the bedroom.
Aisha followed him, her legs feeling like cotton.
He pulled a large duffel bag out of the closet and started throwing clothes into it—shirts, T-shirts, jeans.
“What are you doing?” Aisha’s voice trembled.
“What am I doing?” Darnell didn’t even look at her, continuing to stuff clothes into the bag. “I’m leaving. I’m sick of it. Sick of looking at your miserable face. Sick of waiting for you to come home from work. Sick of everything.”
“Darnell, stop.” Aisha stepped toward him, trying to touch his arm, but he sharply pulled away. “We can talk about this. What happened? What’s this all about?”
“What is this about?” He finally turned, and the cold fury in his eyes chilled Aisha to the bone. “It’s about me being tired of pretending. Tired of acting like I’m okay with everything—that I like my life, or that I even like you.”
He spat out the last words like something bitter.
Aisha felt everything inside her crumble.
“But we’ve been together for so many years,” she whispered. “We were happy.”
“You were happy,” Darnell corrected, zipping up the bag. “You and your factory, your projects, your career. And what about me? I’m just the husband, right? The one who’s supposed to sit here and wait for his gray-haired wife to finally come home.”
“I’ve always— I’ve always supported you.” Aisha’s voice cracked. “When you changed jobs, when money was tight, I supported you.”
“I supported you.” Darnell mimicked. “You know what? I don’t need your support. I need a woman. A real woman, not a burnt-out workhorse.”
He picked up the bag and walked past her toward the hall.
Aisha stood in the bedroom, clutching the bedpost. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
“You have someone else, don’t you?”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
Darnell turned back in the doorway. A flicker of a smirk crossed his face.
“And you’re just figuring that out now?”
He pulled on his jacket, checking his pockets.
“Yeah, I do. And you know what the best part is? She’s twenty-eight. Twenty-eight. She doesn’t have a single gray hair. She doesn’t come home from work looking like a wrung-out rag. She’s not bogged down in her ambitions and projects. She just lives.”
Aisha took a step into the hallway. The tears finally broke through, streaming down her cheeks.
“So that’s it?” she asked hoarsely. “Twenty years and that’s it.”
Darnell slowly, demonstrably pulled his wedding ring off his finger and placed it on the small entry table.
“That’s it,” he said calmly. “I don’t want to live with an old lady anymore.”
The front door slammed shut.
Aisha heard his steps on the stairs, followed by the bang of the building’s entrance door.
A heavy, ringing silence crashed down on the condo.
She slowly sank onto the floor right there in the hallway, pulling her knees to her chest.
Her wedding ring was still on her finger. She traced its smooth metal with her thumb.
An old lady.
A gray old lady.
Aisha covered her face with her hands and allowed herself to cry softly, convulsively, feeling twenty years of her life shatter into pieces, the sharp shards of memories cutting her from the inside.
They had met when she was twenty-two. He was a student at the automotive college. She was a young engineer at the steelworks. Darnell was charming, easygoing, and knew how to make her laugh. She fell in love quickly and completely.
He used to tell her she was special, that with her he felt needed, important.
Their wedding was small.
Then came the rental apartment, then this two-bedroom unit they bought with a mortgage. Aisha worked, built her career, and brought in the majority of the money. Darnell changed jobs—first a repair shop, then a dealership, then another dealership. He said he was searching for himself, trying to find the place where he’d be appreciated.
She believed him, supported him, and covered the home costs when he had gaps between jobs.
They were unable to have children. The doctors were never able to pinpoint the exact cause. Perhaps it was a little bit of both of them. Darnell was distraught back then, withdrawing for several months, but later he seemed to accept it. He said they were doing just fine as they were.
When had everything started to change?
A year ago, two?
He became colder, more irritable, picking fights over minor things. But Aisha blamed it on stress, a midlife crisis, or pressure at work. She thought it would pass, that she just needed to be patient, to endure.
And he had simply found himself a twenty-eight-year-old.
Aisha raised her head, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. She stood up, steadying herself on the wall, and walked into the bathroom. She flicked on the light and looked at herself in the mirror.
Her face was puffy from crying, her eyes red.
She pulled her hair back, scrutinizing the gray streaks.
They were thin, barely noticeable if you weren’t looking closely. Just normal gray hair that everyone gets eventually. Nothing terrible, nothing that made her an old lady.
But Darnell had seen exactly that—an old lady, a burden, an obstacle to his new life.
Aisha turned off the light and left the bathroom.
The apartment met her with emptiness.
In the kitchen, the washed chicken still sat on the counter, and Darnell’s half-empty beer can stood by the sink.
She automatically put the chicken in the fridge, poured out the beer, and rinsed the can.
Then she sat down at the kitchen table and just sat there, staring into the darkness outside the window.
Somewhere out there in this city, Darnell was with another woman—young, beautiful, without any gray hair. He was probably holding her, maybe kissing her, telling her the same words he once told Aisha.
And she was sitting here alone in the condo she’d been paying on for ten years.
A forty-two-year-old gray old lady.
Aisha looked at her hands—strong hands of an engineer used to holding blueprints, working with papers, solving technical problems. These hands had built her career, kept the household afloat, and maintained the home.
What now?
She got up, walked to the bedroom, and lay down on top of the blanket without undressing. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the silence.
The clock on the bedside table read 11:00 at night.
Tomorrow, she had to go to work—finalize the calculations, prepare for the meeting, and move on with her life.
Although, right now, in this empty apartment, Aisha couldn’t imagine how.
The morning started with the alarm clock ringing at 6:30.
Aisha opened her eyes and spent a few seconds wondering why her heart felt so heavy. Then memory brought back last night—every word, every look from Darnell, the slam of the door.
She turned her head. The other half of the bed was empty, the sheets undisturbed.
Darnell hadn’t returned during the night.
Aisha got up and went to the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror looked awful—puffy eyelids, pallor, and the dark circles under her eyes even more pronounced.
She washed her face with cold water, then hot, trying to restore her composure.
She pulled eye patches from the medicine cabinet, applied them, and left them on for the required time.
She had to go to work.
She had to hold it together.
No one should see that she was falling apart.
Aisha put on a sharp black pantsuit, a white blouse, and a gray blazer. She carefully styled her hair into a neat low bun, taking care that the gray streaks weren’t noticeable. A little makeup—foundation, concealer, mascara.
The mirror reflected a respectable middle-aged woman, a senior engineer at Midwest Steelworks.
No one would guess the fire raging inside.
By eight, she was at the plant: the entrance gate, the familiar security guard, Mrs. Johnson. A nod of the head, the habitual walk across the yard to the administrative building.
Everything was as usual.
The machines hummed in the workshops, smelling of metal and machine oil. Workers in their coveralls were smoking near the gate before the start of the shift.
“Aisha Harmon. Good morning,” called out Mike Evans, the head of production. “Are those calculations ready?”
“Morning, Mike.” Aisha managed a semblance of a smile. “They’ll be ready by lunch. I promise.”
“Excellent. Mr. Peterson was asking about them yesterday. He’s very interested in this project.”
Aisha nodded and went to her office, a small cubicle on the second floor that she shared with two other engineers, Omar and Tanisha. Luckily, neither had arrived yet.
She sat down at her desk, turned on her computer, and spread out the blueprints.
The production line modernization project was her baby. The culmination of the last six months—a new automation system that would increase output by thirty percent and reduce the scrap rate.
Mr. Peterson had been closely monitoring this development for months.
Aisha opened the calculation file and stared at the numbers. They blurred before her eyes.
You’ve sat down and grown old.
She squeezed her eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
No. Not now. Work.
She had to focus on the work.
Slowly, the numbers started to form a system. Aisha plunged into the calculations, and for a while, the pain receded. There was a problem. There was a solution. Everything was logical, clear, and obeyed the rules.
“Oh, Aisha, you’re here already.” Tanisha Cox, a young woman and recent graduate of the technical university, walked over to her desk.
“I need to finish the calculations,” Aisha answered curtly, not looking up from the monitor.
Tanisha said something else, but Aisha didn’t listen. She clung to her work like a lifeline.
By eleven, the calculations were complete.
Aisha printed the pages, placed them in a folder, and carried them to the CEO.
Mr. Peterson was sitting in his office reviewing some papers.
“Aisha, come in.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Did you bring the calculations?”
“Yes, Mr. Peterson.” Aisha placed the folder in front of him. “Everything is ready. If you approve, we can launch the test line in two weeks.”
The CEO flipped through the documents, examining the figures carefully. Aisha sat with her hands folded in her lap, waiting.
Mr. Peterson was a man in his early fifties, with graying temples and an attentive gaze. He had managed the plant for over ten years and had a knack for seeing the big picture.
“Good work,” he finally said, closing the folder. “Very good work. You’ve put in a tremendous effort, Aisha. Thank you.”
Aisha nodded, her throat tight.
“I wanted to talk to you about something else.” Mr. Peterson leaned back in his chair. “As you know, Mr. Harrison will be retiring in two months. The position of head of the advanced engineering division will be opening up.”
Aisha felt her heart rate quicken.
Head of the division.
Her direct supervisor.
It was the position she had secretly wanted for the past three years.
“A competition will be announced,” the CEO continued. “There will be three candidates, including you. But frankly—” he tapped the folder with the calculations, “—after work like this, you are the clear favorite. Think about it. It’s a serious responsibility. The salary, of course, is two and a half times your current rate, but the workload is commensurate.”
“I’ll think about it.” Aisha heard her own voice as if from a distance. “Thank you for the confidence, Mr. Peterson.”
“The competition is in one week. A presentation of the projects before the committee. Be ready.”
Aisha left the CEO’s office on shaky legs.
Head of the division. Two and a half times her salary.
That meant—she quickly calculated in her head—about $150,000 a year instead of her current $80,000.
Darnell made about $45,000 working at the auto dealership.
She stopped in the middle of the corridor, leaning against the wall.
Suddenly, everything flipped in her mind.
Darnell, his departure, his words about the gray old lady.
And here she was, being offered a position he couldn’t even dream of.
“Aisha, what are you doing standing here?” called out Serena Vaughn, an engineer from the neighboring division.
“It’s fine.” Aisha looked at her friend.
Serena had worked at the plant as long as she had—exactly twenty years. They were nearly the same age, had started together, risen through the ranks together, and weathered the plant’s crisis side by side.
If there was anyone she could trust, it was her.
“Serena, let’s go get coffee,” Aisha said quietly.
They went down to the plant’s cafeteria, grabbed two cups of coffee, and sat at a table in the corner. Lunchtime hadn’t arrived yet, so the room was almost empty.
“What happened?” Serena looked at her closely. “You’re not yourself today.”
“Darnell left.” Aisha blurted it out quickly before she could stop herself. “Last night he said I’d gotten gray and turned into an old lady, packed his bags, and went to his young thing.”
Serena froze with her cup in her hands.
“What?”
“Seriously.” Aisha clutched her cup, feeling the warmth through the ceramic. “Just like that. Twenty years and that’s it.”
“Aisha.” Serena leaned across the table and took her hand. “My God. I don’t know what to say. What a piece of—”
“Don’t.” Aisha shook her head. “I just needed to tell someone or I’ll go crazy.”
They sat in silence. Serena didn’t let go of her hand.
“Listen,” her friend finally said. “You know what I think? He’s a fool. A complete fool. You’re one of the best engineers at this plant. You’re smart, strong, and beautiful. And the gray hair has nothing to do with it.”
“I’m forty-two, Serena.” Aisha offered a bitter smile. “I’m not young anymore.”
“So what? I’m forty-one. I’ve got gray hair, too. Am I an old lady now?” Serena spoke quietly but firmly. “Stop it. He’s just looking for an excuse for his cowardice. This isn’t about your hair. It’s about him being a weak man who can’t handle the fact that his wife is more successful than he is.”
Aisha looked up.
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve seen it happen to others.” Serena leaned back in her chair. “Remember Tina from accounting? Her husband left when she became chief accountant, too. Said she worked too much. In reality, he just couldn’t stand that she earned more.”
Aisha remained silent, processing her friend’s words.
“By the way.” Serena leaned in again, lowering her voice. “I heard Mr. Peterson was talking to you about the competition.”
Aisha nodded. “He said I was the favorite.”
“See that?” Serena slapped the table with her palm. “Aisha, this is your chance. Head of the division. Can you imagine? That’s totally different money, a different status.”
“I don’t know.” Aisha rubbed her temples. “Right now, all of that feels so unimportant.”
“Unimportant?” Serena shook her head. “Aisha, wake up. Your husband left. Yes, he left. It hurts. It hurts badly. But life doesn’t end here. You have to participate in this competition. You have to get this position.”
“And you know why?”
“Why?”
“Because you earned it with your work, your projects, and your talent.” Serena’s eyes didn’t waver. “And because the best revenge against an ex-husband is your success.”
Aisha looked at her friend.
There was truth in her words.
Life really didn’t end.
Darnell left. That was his choice.
But what now—sit at home and mourn a broken marriage, or take a step forward?
“The presentation is in a week,” she said slowly. “I need to prepare.”
“That’s the spirit.” Serena smiled. “Come by my place after work. We’ll talk it over properly. We’ll have some wine. I don’t want you sitting alone at home.”
“Thanks, Serena. I’ll come over.”
They returned to their offices. Aisha sat down at her desk and opened the file for the modernization project presentation. She started refining the slides, adding charts, diagrams, and efficiency calculations.
The work drew her in.
With every passing hour, the pain became a little more manageable. It didn’t vanish, but it retreated to the background, giving way to focus.
That evening, Aisha did stop by Serena’s. They sat in the kitchen of her apartment, drinking red wine and talking.
“You know what the most hurtful part is?” Aisha swirled her glass. “I always supported him. Always. When he was in college, I was already working, helping him out with money for books and transit. When he lost his first job, I carried both of us. When we got the condo, I paid the larger share because my salary was higher. And all that time, I thought we were a team, that we were in this together.”
“He thought you owed him,” Serena said quietly.
“Maybe.” Aisha took a sip of wine. “Remember about three years ago when he wanted to start his own business—an auto repair shop? I agreed to invest our savings. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Everything we had. He lasted six months and shut it down. Said it didn’t work out. That the competition was too fierce.”
“And did he give the money back?”
“No. Said it was family money and I shouldn’t ask about it.” Aisha offered a bitter laugh. “I swallowed it back then. I thought we shouldn’t fight over money, that family was what mattered most.”
“Aisha.” Serena took her hand. “He used you. He simply used you. And when he realized you were becoming too successful, too independent, he ran.”
Aisha didn’t respond. Something was shifting inside her. The hurt and pain were slowly turning into something else—anger, resolve.
“Serena, I need a good attorney,” she said suddenly. “For divorce and dividing things fairly.”
Serena straightened up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. The condo was bought during the marriage. I paid most of it. I have the proof. I want to know my rights.”
“Good for you.” Serena nodded approvingly. “I happen to know someone who works at a firm. She’s excellent. I’ll text you her number tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
They stayed up a bit longer, finished the bottle of wine, and Aisha drove home.
The condo met her with silence.
Darnell still hadn’t shown up, not even to collect his things. Aisha walked through the rooms. Everything was in place, but the emptiness felt physical.
She went into the bedroom and opened the closet. Half the shelves were empty. Darnell had taken the essentials yesterday.
On his bedside table lay some papers—old car magazines, stray pages.
She opened the drawer. Inside were his personal items: a watch, cuff links she’d given him for their anniversary, photographs.
Aisha took one out— their wedding day, twenty years ago. Young, happy, in love. Her in a white dress, him in a suit, hugging, looking at the camera, completely different people.
Aisha put the photo back, closed the drawer, and went to the kitchen. She brewed tea, sat down at the table, pulled out her phone, and opened her Messenger app— a few messages from colleagues, ads, nothing from Darnell.
She wrote a message to Serena.
Thanks for tonight. I really feel better.
The reply came almost instantly.
Always here for you. I’ll send the attorney’s contact in the morning. Go get him, Aisha. You’re strong. You’ll get through this.
Aisha looked at the screen.
Strong.
She had always been strong. She’d supported her family, worked, built her career, and maintained the home. She just hadn’t noticed it because she thought that was how it should be.
And Darnell had grown accustomed to her strength, taking it for granted.
When that strength became too obvious, too bright, he got scared and ran.
But now, sitting alone in her kitchen with a cup of tea in her hands, Aisha suddenly understood: she didn’t want to be anyone’s support system anymore. She didn’t want to adjust to anyone else’s expectations or fears.
She wanted to be herself—the person who deserved to be a successful engineer, a professional, perhaps the head of the division.
The next day, Serena sent her the number for the attorney, Ms. Evelyn Pierce. Aisha called during her lunch break and arranged a meeting for the day after tomorrow.
The consultation took place in a small office downtown. Ms. Pierce was a woman in her late forties with a sharp gaze and calm demeanor.
“Tell me about the situation,” she requested, opening a notepad.
Aisha told her everything—Darnell’s departure, the twenty years of marriage, the condo, the home costs she had primarily covered.
“Do you have proof of your contributions?” Ms. Pierce asked.
“Yes. I saved everything. Plus, I have account summaries.”
“Good. That’s very good.” The lawyer made notes. “By law, assets acquired during the marriage are divided fifty-fifty. But if you can show you contributed the majority of the funds for the condo, the court may take that into account during the division. Also, if your husband has any other real estate or valuable assets, that is also included.”
“He only has his car,” Aisha said. “An old Chevy Impala, maybe ten years old.”
“That’s an asset, too. We’ll address it.” Ms. Pierce looked up. “Aisha, I’ll be honest with you. Your chances of retaining the majority share of the condo are very high. You have the evidence, a stable income, and a clean reputation. We can file for divorce and division simultaneously. The process will take a few months, but the result will be in your favor.”
Aisha listened, feeling her resolve strengthen.
“Start preparing the paperwork,” she said firmly.
The following days were spent working and preparing. Aisha finalized the presentation for the competition, gathered documents for the attorney, and met with Ms. Pierce to discuss the details.
Darnell still hadn’t contacted her. No calls, no texts, as if he’d vanished.
Aisha tried not to think about where he was, who he was with, or what he was doing. But sometimes in the evenings, her thoughts would drift, and then she would open the presentation file and work until midnight.
The day before the competition, Serena stopped by her cubicle.
“Ready?”
“Kind of.” Aisha closed her laptop. “The presentation’s done. The project is detailed. All I have to do is not screw up tomorrow.”
“You won’t screw up. You’re the best.” Serena sat on the edge of the desk. “Aisha, I’m serious. You’ve invested so many years in this plant. Your projects work. Your calculations are always spot-on. Mr. Peterson wasn’t joking when he said you were the favorite.”
“Your competitors are good, too,” Aisha noted. “Walter Price, for example. He has more experience.”
“But you have a fresh perspective and real results.” Serena’s mouth tightened. “Stop underestimating yourself.”
Aisha looked at her friend and suddenly smiled. It was the first honest smile she’d managed in days.
“Thanks, Serena. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d manage. You’re strong. Sometimes you just need someone to remind you.”
That evening, Aisha found it hard to fall asleep. She lay there staring at the ceiling, replaying tomorrow’s presentation in her head. She thought about Darnell, about how the lawyer would file the divorce papers in a few days, about how her life was changing irrevocably.
Was she scared?
Yes.
But it wasn’t a paralyzing fear. It was more like anxious anticipation—like standing on the edge of a diving board. Scary, but you want to jump. You want to know what happens next.
She turned on her side, hugging the pillow.
The gray streaks fell across her face. Aisha tucked them behind her ear.
Old lady.
Darnell called her an old lady.
And tomorrow she would be fighting for the position of head of the advanced engineering division—for $150,000—for her new life.
And she didn’t care about the gray hair.
The morning of the competition, Aisha woke up at 5:00 in the morning. Her heart was pounding like it was finals week.
She got up, showered, and stood in front of her closet for a long time, choosing an outfit. She settled on a dark blue pantsuit—severe but feminine—a white blouse, small silver earrings. She styled her hair into a low bun, neat, professional. The gray streaks barely showed among the rest of her hair.
She looked at her reflection and saw not the gray old lady Darnell had called her.
She saw an engineer with twenty years of experience. A professional who knew her business.
By eight, she was at the plant.
The committee was already gathering in the conference room: Mr. Peterson, chief engineer Andrew Williams, production manager Mike Evans, a union representative, and two invited specialists from the company’s corporate office.
In addition to Aisha, two others were competing for the position: Walter Price, an engineer with thirty years of experience, and Andre Nelson, a promising young specialist who had joined the plant five years ago.
Walter Price presented first, a dignified man in his early fifties wearing glasses and a gray beard. He spoke about the importance of experience, stability, and proven methods. His presentation was classic, with a lot of text on the slides—a conservative approach.
Andre spoke second—energetic, ambitious. He talked about new technologies, the digitalization of production, and integrating artificial intelligence into process management. The slides were slick, the words were loud, but Aisha noticed his presentation lacked specifics.
Then it was her turn.
Aisha walked to the projector and plugged in her laptop.
A deep breath.
Her hands trembled slightly, but she managed to control herself.
“Good morning, esteemed committee,” she began in a calm voice. “My name is Aisha Harmon, and I’ve been working at this plant for the last twenty years. During that time, I have been involved in twenty-three projects, twelve of which have been implemented and brought the plant a total savings of over eight million dollars.”
Her first slide showed photos of the plant production lines—workers, machinery, the living heartbeat of the place.
“I want to show you not abstract ideas, but the real results of my work.”
The next slide displayed the diagram for the modernization of production line number three, which she had developed two years ago.
“That project reduced the scrap rate from seven percent to two percent and increased productivity by twenty percent. It paid for itself in eight months.”
She spoke confidently, clearly showing charts, numbers, and photos. She saw the committee members exchange glances, nod, and make notes.
“My latest project is the modernization of production line number one.” Aisha switched the slide. “This is the most ambitious development in my years of work. A new automation system that will increase productivity by thirty percent, reduce energy consumption by twenty percent, and cut equipment downtime in half.”
She detailed every stage of the project, showing calculations, simulations, and projected economic efficiency.
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