Chapter 2

When the patent application went in, only the Technical Director and Deputy Director were listed as inventors.

I brought it up once.

The Technical Director told me, "Jessica, I've already talked it over with the higher-ups. Everyone knows you're a core member, but patent authorship has to take a lot of things into account. Don't worry; you'll get your bonus for sure."

At the end of the year, I got a 700-dollar bonus.

The Technical Director walked away with 30 thousand.

That year, Ethan started elementary school. One of the topics in class was "Parents' Occupation." When Ethan asked us, I said "Engineer," and his dad said "Self-Employed."

Ethan replied, "Mom, what does an engineer do?"

I said, "Someone who figures out how to make machines work better."

His eyes lit up. "Wow, Mom, that's awesome!"

I just smiled and didn't say anything.

2018 was the year my husband got his diagnosis.

Back then, I worked all day, spent the nights by his side in the hospital, and took him to his checkups every weekend.

One day, while I was in the hospital room, I got a call—something had gone wrong with the project, and I had to rush back to the office.

I left my husband with the caregiver, hopped in a cab, and pulled a thirty-six hour shift straight in the lab.

In the end, the process improvement plan worked. The yield rate jumped from 70% to 95%, and it saved the company millions of dollars in scrap costs.

At the quarterly review meeting, the Production Manager went up on stage to accept the Outstanding Employee Award.

I sat in the audience, and my phone buzzed with a text from the caregiver: [Mr. Chase threw up twice today. When can you come by?]

I didn't wait for the meeting to end. I just got up and left.

In 2019, my husband passed away.

Before he passed, he held my hand and said, "Jessica, it's all up to you now."

I said okay.

He went on, "And... I helped a friend's daughter land a job at the company recently. She's just graduated, her name's Lily Hayes. Please look after her."

I said okay.

He closed his eyes and never opened them again.

That night, after my husband's funeral rites were over, I went back to the office.

My desk was buried under a mountain of files, and right on top was the core plan for the automation upgrade—the one that had been stuck on the last algorithm for half a year, and nobody could figure it out.

I sat down and started from page one, combing through every detail.

For three days straight, I didn't leave the office.

Whenever I got tired, I'd just pass out at my desk for a bit, then wake up and dive right back in.

By four in the morning on the third day, I finally got the last parameter working.

I stared at the results on the screen, and suddenly, tears started streaming down my face.

It wasn't because I was happy.

It was because I remembered my husband lying in that hospital bed. Back then, he could still talk, and the last thing he said to me about work was, "This project matters. Give it your all."

When the plan was submitted, the inventor credits had my old supervisor's name on them.

He'd already moved to another department, but since he was credited for "overall coordination," he got top billing as the lead inventor.

And my name? Still all the way at the bottom.

That year, I was thirty-five.

That's when I started making it a habit—every time I finished a document, I'd save three backups: one on the company server, one on my personal cloud drive, and one on a USB drive.

"Who knows, maybe one day I'll need them," I kept telling myself.

Maybe.

Ethan walked over, carrying a steaming mug of hot water, and placed it in front of me.

"Mom, you should stop. It's getting really late," he said.

I shut my laptop and looked at him.

Ethan really took after his dad—there was a maturity in his face now, that grown-up look showing in his eyes.

"Ethan," I said.

"Yeah?"

"I need to tell you something."

"What is it?"

I paused, then said, "You know, these past three years, I've done way more at the company than anyone thinks. Most of those patents and projects—they were really my work."

Ethan blinked, caught off guard.

"I know," he said.

"You know?"

"I've seen it," he said. "Sometimes you bring files home, and I've seen whose names are on them. And those emails," he looked down, "I know you haven't been treated fairly."

I stayed quiet for a long time.

"Mom," Ethan said, looking up, his eyes a little red. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Say what?"

"Tell the company, tell the bosses—let them know you're the one who did all that work!"

I shook my head. "It wouldn't make a difference. In a place like that, no one listens. If you're not senior enough, not good at playing politics, and not good at sucking up, it doesn't matter what you say—no one's going to care."

I first met Lily in the summer of 2020.

My husband had only been gone for two months, and I was still stuck in that fog.

Back then, I was like a robot going through the motions—drop Ethan off at school in the morning, grind away at work all day, come home to cook, clean, help with homework, then lie awake all night, staring at the ceiling until sunrise.

Lily joined the company in July, rocking a white dress, ponytail bouncing, flashing a smile at everyone she passed.

When HR brought her over to the Tech Department, I was busy adjusting some settings and didn't even bother to look up.

"This is Jessica, one of our old hands and a key tech expert," HR said. "Lily's a fresh grad. Jessica, show her the ropes, okay?"

I just gave a quiet "Yeah."

"Hi, Jessica," Lily said, stepping over and giving a little bow. "I'll be counting on you from now on."

That was when I finally looked up at her.

She looked to be in her early twenties, with bright eyes and dimples when she smiled.

Before he passed, my husband told me she was his friend's daughter—just graduated and having a tough time finding a job. He asked if I could help her get a foot in the door.

I told him I'd help her out.

The night Lily joined the company, I went home and started sorting through my husband's belongings. In his notebook, I found a letter tucked away.

It was a handwritten recommendation letter he'd addressed to HR at Apex Industries. [Lily Hayes is the daughter of a close friend of mine. She graduated from a top university with a degree in Mechanical Engineering.

[She's bright, cheerful, and hardworking. I sincerely hope your company can give her a chance. I'd be deeply grateful if you could give her a shot.]

The date at the bottom was just a week before he passed.

By then, he could hardly speak in full sentences. I couldn't imagine how much strength it took for him to finish that letter.

I carefully tucked the letter away, telling myself, "For my husband's sake, I'll make sure she gets the help she needs. I owe him that much."

At first, Lily really didn't know a thing.

She needed me to walk her through every basic DraftPro move, her drawings were a total mess, and she kept screwing up the numbers.

But she picked things up fast, and she knew how to talk to people.

Every time I showed her something, she'd take notes like her life depended on it, and before leaving, she'd always say, "Thanks, Jessica." Sometimes, she'd even bring me a cup of coffee.

So, I thought she was a good kid. Maybe she was a bit green, but at least she got the right attitude.

About six months later, I started to notice something wasn't right.

I put together a process improvement plan and dropped it in the department's shared folder, waiting for the review.

The next day at the meeting, Lily pulled out a plan that was nearly a carbon copy of mine—just dressed up with a prettier cover and some slick formatting.

"This is something I've been thinking about lately," she said, standing up in front of the projector, looking totally at ease. "I'd love to hear your feedback, everyone."

I sat there, listening as she walked everyone through every idea and every set of numbers I'd written, like it was all her own original work.

After the meeting, I went to find her.

"Lily, about that proposal—" I began.

"Jessica," she interrupted, her smile never fading. "I know what you're getting at. But come on—how many years have you been here? Ever got a promotion? Ever won Employee of the Year?"

I stayed silent.

"No matter how good your proposal is, if it's just sitting on the shared drive, who's going to see it? Who's going to remember you made it?" Lily leaned in, lowering her voice. "Jessica, I'm helping you.

"If this proposal gets approved, the higher-ups will remember the tech department is working hard, and your performance review won't suffer."

"But it's got your name on it," I said.

"It's just a name," Lily said with a smile. "Jessica, you've been at this company for over ten years. Does having your name on a document really matter? What really matters is the actual perks.

"Just do your job, keep your job, and make sure your kid can go to school. Let the newbies take the spotlight. What's the big deal?"

I looked into her eyes.

There wasn't a trace of guilt there—just the feeling that she had every right, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"From now on, Jessica, let's keep cooperating smoothly," Lily said, giving my shoulder a reassuring pat. "I'll look out for you."

That night, I exported the original proposal and saved it to my USB drive.

After that, for every document I made, I kept several backups—every timestamp, version number, and change log saved.

I didn't make a fuss, didn't report it, and didn't even mention it to anyone.

It wasn't because I was scared.

It was because I knew that in this company, reporting things never made a difference.

I was just a middle-aged woman with no connections, not good at playing the game, and all I did was keep my head down and work. If I spoke up, they'd just say I was jealous of the younger folks, or that I was difficult.

And at the time, I had no idea that this was just the beginning.

In 2021, Lily landed a supervisor position with my proposal.

In 2022, the "Tech Innovation Project" she led was honored by the group. The core code behind it was the algorithm I wrote back in 2019—the year my husband died, when I stayed up three nights straight to finish it.

In 2023, three core patents got approved, and she was the only inventor listed on all of them.

As for me? My name wasn't there at all. Not even a letter.

Sometimes, late at night, I'd open those files and just stare at the creation date, at every line of code I painstakingly wrote, every parameter I set myself.

2:17 AM, July 18, 2019.

That was the day I'd just finished the funeral ritual for my husband.

By the time I got back to the office, it was still dark outside. I sat down at my desk, took a sip of cold water, and started coding.

No one ever knew any of this.

No one ever knew how those proposals came to be, what I was thinking in those early hours, or how I kept typing with tears running down my face.

All they ever saw was Lily as the "capable one," and Jessica as the one who just did the grunt work.

But I kept everything.

Every file, every record, every timestamp.

Just like my husband used to say, "Jessica, you're just not a fighter. You never fight for anything. But you know, you can't just be a pushover. If you're good to people, they should remember it."

Nobody ever remembered. But at least I did.

*****

Monday morning, I showed up at the office right on time.

The receptionist froze for a second when she saw me. "Jessica, didn't you quit?"

"I still have some handover paperwork to finish," I said.

She just went, "Okay," and left it at that.

The office was dead quiet.

I noticed a few people whispering together, but as soon as they saw me, they quickly scattered.

I figured they were probably talking about the audit.

Word about the group audit team coming in had already gotten out last Friday. Today was the day they officially showed up—I heard a handful of them were already camped out in finance, digging through files.

I sat down at my desk and started packing up the last of my personal stuff.

There wasn't much—just a photo frame, a few reference books I picked up myself, and a pothos plant I'd been taking care of for three years.

Lily showed up earlier than usual.

She was rocking a brand-new suit, makeup on point—clearly out to impress the audit team.

"Hey, Jessica," Lily said, stopping by my desk. "All the handover stuff is sorted in the shared folder, just grab it whenever."

"Okay."

She leaned in, lowering her voice. "So you know about the audit, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

"If anyone asks, just say it was routine coordination," she said with a smile. "After all, you played your part in our department's achievements, didn't you?"