“No, sir.”

He didn’t insist. He went back to his laptop, as if I were invisible.

That night, while I was mopping the conference room, I heard him laughing with his colleagues.

“I once got a girl pregnant in high school,” he said, laughing. “She said it was mine. But you know how poor girls are, they say anything.”

Everyone laughed.

I dropped the mop, ran to the bathroom, and cried for an hour.

“Why, God? Why me?”

I couldn’t take it anymore. That night, I wrote a letter with trembling hands: