The Real Garcia

I finished reviewing the other candidates’ files.

The door opened. David Johnson walked back in, slightly hunched, escorting an elderly woman.

“Ms. Smith, this is Isabelle’s grandmother, Mrs. Harrington.”

He shot me a heavy, warning glare, then closed the door.

I looked up.

She wore a navy silk dress. Her silver hair was perfectly combed. Gold rimmed glasses sat on her nose. She was in her seventies but had barely any wrinkles, remarkably youthful.

“Ms. Smith.” She sat down with the haughty posture of someone who had never known hardship. “My granddaughter wants to intern at your firm. Make it happen.”

She slid a thick envelope across the desk.

I looked at her hands. Plump and fair. An emerald ring on her finger. Those hands had never done a day of hard labor.

But the real Garcia’s hands, my grandmother’s hands, were nothing like that. She had spent her life mending horse harnesses and patching overalls by the dim light of a kerosene lantern. Her knuckles were thick, her fingers wrapped in old cloth. They never fully straightened.

I looked up. “The interview process is over. Your granddaughter didn’t pass.”

Her face darkened. Behind the glasses, her eyes narrowed. “Ms. Smith, Isabelle is the National Mock Trial champion. Six published papers. Top of her class every year. Isn’t it absurd to keep her out?”

“The candidates have been selected,” I said, pushing the envelope back to her. “We found someone more suitable.”

She glanced at the rejected envelope. “Not enough? Name your price.”

“I have my own principles.” I held her gaze. “As an artist of your stature, you understand integrity. Unless, in your view, principles are for sale.”

Her face turned to stone. She crossed her arms and let out a derisive snort.

“Little girl, don’t overestimate yourself. I have seen plenty of young women like you. You slept your way to the top with your looks, didn’t you? Now you want to act tough by rejecting my granddaughter? Take a look at yourself.”

She adjusted her glasses. “Isabelle’s parents died young. My husband and I have invested our whole lives in her. Process her hiring paperwork. Otherwise, our family has deep roots in this circle. The connections we have built over decades, you won’t get those by sleeping with a few more men. Don’t be foolish.”

I looked at her calmly.

Beneath that youthful surface, the ugliness that had been buried for fifty years was finally surfacing.

This was her true self. A woman who had stolen another’s identity but could never live up to it.

My grandmother’s name was Garcia. The real Garcia.

She died with her eyes still open, murmuring her husband’s name.

I clenched my fists. “Are you finished? Mrs. Harrington, the interview result stands. Please leave.”

Her eyebrows shot up. She stood, snatched the envelope, and shoved it back into her purse, then spat, “You ungrateful bitch. You will regret this.”

The door slammed.

Within ten minutes, David Johnson was back.

“Evelyn! You have lost your mind. I am telling you one last time. Hire Isabelle Harrington.”

I did not move. “She didn’t meet my standards.” I gestured to my computer. “The system permissions are mine. Only I know the password.”

He went pale. “You’re insane! Do you know what happens if you don’t hire her? Professor Harrington can destroy this firm with one phone call. Fix this now, or you’re fired!”

I looked at him. For about three seconds, the office was silent.

Then I smiled slightly. “Fine. I’ll call Professor Harrington myself.”

He blinked, surprised I agreed so easily. He stared at me for a moment, then stormed out, slamming the door.

Sunlight shifted across the open files.

Professor Daniel Harrington. Mrs. Harrington. Neatly written under “Family Members” by Isabelle’s hand.

My grandfather. The man who abandoned my grandmother.

And the woman who stole my grandmother’s life.

A thief.

I stared for a long time. Then I dialed the number.

“Professor Harrington, this is Evelyn Smith from the firm. Regarding your granddaughter’s application, I would like to meet with you in person.”