I didn’t believe in fate—but I did believe in irony.
My former bully was asking for a $50,000 loan.
On paper, it was an easy rejection. Bad credit. Maxed-out cards. Missed payments. No collateral.
Then I saw the purpose: emergency heart surgery for his eight-year-old daughter.
I closed the file slowly.
“Send him in,” I said.
When he walked through the door, I almost didn’t recognize him.
The confident athlete was gone. In his place stood a thin, worn-out man in a wrinkled suit, shoulders weighed down by life.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he said, sitting down.
He didn’t recognize me.
I leaned back.
“Chemistry class feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?” I said.
His face went pale.
His eyes darted to my nameplate—then back to me. I watched the hope drain from his expression.
“I… I didn’t know,” he said quickly, standing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.”
“Sit,” I said.
He sat.
His hands were shaking.
