Alessandra didn’t ask for favors. She didn’t even ask for explanations when life was unfair. She only wanted to keep the one thing no one could take from her without her permission: her dignity. But that September morning, as the air conditioning hummed like a trapped insect and twenty-five people avoided making eye contact in the meeting room of the marketing company on Serrano Street, she felt even that slipping through her fingers.

Mr. Martínez, the impeccable director with his perpetually measured smile, held some papers as if they were a death sentence. He didn’t look up when he spoke. “As you all know, the company is going through a difficult time… we need to make cuts.” The words hung heavy in the air. Alessandra swallowed. She had been there for six years. Six years of arriving at eight, putting out last-minute fires, sustaining campaigns that others promised and she finished. Six years of eating quickly at the corner café because saving money was an old habit, almost inherited.

Martínez continued reading names, surrounded by a silence that felt like a punishment. When he pronounced “Alessandra Herrera,” the world stopped for a second and then returned with a jolt in her chest. She felt the heat rise to her face, her blood rushing too fast, and a cold pallor at the back of her neck. All eyes fell on her: some with pity, others with a selfish relief they didn’t bother to hide.

“Me?” she asked, but her voice came out smaller than she intended.

“Your performance is not satisfactory. You can collect your things today.” He spoke as if he were announcing just another meeting.

Alessandra pressed her lips together. She knew it was a lie. Her clients recommended her, her deliveries were on time, her work sustained entire accounts. But arguing there, in front of everyone, would be giving the director exactly what he wanted: to see her tremble. Don’t worry, she would. “I understand,” she said, standing up slowly, with that artificial calm that appears when the heart beats faster than the steps.

She returned to her desk by the window. From there she could see the street with its normal rhythm, the lives of others that don’t stop for a personal misfortune. Her hands trembled as she packed a mug with her niece’s picture on it, a small cactus that had survived three years of neglect and care, and a worn-out planner with notes that now seemed to belong to someone else. Around her, murmurs rose and fell like small waves. No one dared to hug her. No one dared to ask, “Are you okay?” Because asking forces you to listen, and listening forces you to feel.

At reception, the young secretary gave her a sad smile, as if apologizing for not being able to do anything. Alessandra lowered her head, went through the revolving door, and the September sun hit her face with an almost cruel brightness. Madrid was as always: tourists in groups, executives with headphones, couples laughing, the noise of buses and construction. Only she walked with a box in her arms and an emptiness in her throat.

She didn’t have enough savings. Her rent in Chamberí swallowed her salary. And the inevitable call to her mother, back in a town near Valladolid, weighed on her more than the box. How could she tell a woman who had worked all her life that her daughter—the “responsible” one—had been fired as if she were worthless?

She didn’t take the metro. She walked. She passed Colón, past benches occupied by people enjoying the sun. She saw children running, mothers chatting, people who still believed that life was a gift. She felt the absurd sensation of looking at a world to which she no longer belonged.

At home, Elena, her sister from Barcelona, ​​called her. Elena’s voice always arrived with an energy that sometimes saved her, sometimes irritated her, depending on the day.

“How was work today?”

“I was fired.”

There was a silence on the other end, as if Elena had held her breath. “What? Why?”

“They say my buttons aren’t good enough. But I know that’s not true.”

“Listen to me,” Elena said, now more firmly. “If they fired you, they lost an excellent employee. You’ll see, you’ll find something better.”

Alessandra looked at her small living room, the old sofa, the box still on the floor like a symbol. “I’m thirty-four, Elena. In Madrid, they want young, cheap people.”

“Don’t say that. You have experience. You’re dedicated.”

The words of encouragement sounded nice, but they felt distant. When she hung up, Alessandra opened her laptop. She searched for job openings, sent out resumes, read impossible requirements and salaries that seemed like a joke. Two hours later, she closed the screen with a quiet despair. That night, lying in bed, she listened to the city outside her window and thought about how brutal everything was: in the morning she had a routine, an identity, a place; at night, only questions.

And then, when she thought the blow had been enough for one day…