I was meeting my boyfriend’s parents for the first time. They were lovely, and we got along well. After lunch, I went to the toilet, but when I returned, their attitudes shifted. My boyfriend quickly suggested we leave. Once in the car, he said, “You could’ve at least warned me!” Shocked, I realized he was looking at me like I’d betrayed him.
I blinked at him, unsure whether to laugh or panic. “Warned you about what?”
He rubbed his forehead, exhaling like I’d ruined his entire life. “Your last name. You didn’t think that might be important?”
Confused, I replied, “Kanaan? What about it?”
He let out a short, bitter laugh. “My dad used to work at a textile company called Harrow & Brook. The woman who sued them for wrongful termination? One of the biggest scandals in the company’s history? Her name was Ghada Kanaan.”
My stomach dropped.
Ghada Kanaan was my mother.
I hadn’t thought about that lawsuit in years. I was fifteen when it happened. My mom was a seamstress at Harrow & Brook for over a decade. She was fired after reporting unsafe work conditions and alleged wage theft. Her lawsuit dragged on for months and cost our family nearly everything. I remembered my parents whispering behind closed doors, the way the neighborhood moms stopped calling, the threats she got in the mail.
“I didn’t even know your dad worked there,” I said slowly, my voice shaking. “I didn’t connect the dots.”
He stared straight ahead. “You don’t think that matters? My dad almost lost his pension because of your mom.”
I didn’t know what to say.
We sat in silence the rest of the ride.
The next day, I texted him to talk things through. He didn’t respond. For two days, nothing. Then he finally replied: “I just don’t think this is going to work. My parents are uncomfortable, and I have to respect that.”
No call. No conversation. Just a dead-end text.
And that should’ve been the end of it.
But three weeks later, I got an email. From his mom.
Her name was Colette, and she wrote in a strangely formal tone. She said she felt “unfinished” about our lunch, and wondered if we could talk. Just the two of us. “Over tea, if you’re open.”
My instinct was to ignore it. Who reaches out to their son’s now-ex like that?
But curiosity got the better of me. And a tiny, stupid part of me hoped maybe this would smooth things over. That maybe it wasn’t really about my mom.
We met at a tiny café in Newton. She was already seated when I arrived, her cardigan neatly folded over the back of the chair, a tea she hadn’t touched.
“I appreciate you coming,” she said, eyes warm but cautious. “I won’t keep you long.”
I nodded, unsure what to expect.
She got to it quickly. “I wanted to ask you something… personal. When your mother sued Harrow & Brook, did she ever talk about a woman named Alma Ricketts?”
The name stirred something faint, like a half-remembered song. “I think so. She was another worker? Older woman?”
Colette nodded. “She was my best friend. Worked the same floor as your mother. Alma died a few months after the trial ended.”
She paused. Her lips pressed together. I could see she was holding something back.
Then she said, “Alma gave a deposition in support of your mom. Said she saw the mold in the storage rooms, the missing overtime slips. And after that… Harrow & Brook fired her too.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just stared.
“My husband never talks about it. Says it’s all in the past. But I’ve never stopped thinking about Alma. What it cost her. What she stood up for. And I—” Her voice cracked.
“I should’ve been kinder to you at lunch. It just… caught me off guard. But the truth is, I admire your mother. And I think you deserved better than how things ended with my son.”
That last sentence stunned me more than anything.
I blinked back tears. “Thank you. That means more than you know.”
Then she did something unexpected—she pulled out a manila envelope. “This is going to sound strange. But Alma kept a journal. I found it when I was cleaning out her apartment after she passed. There’s an entry in here about your mom. I thought… you might want to see it.”
I took the envelope. We hugged briefly, and she left.
I read that entry on the bus home.
It wasn’t long, just two pages. But Alma had written about how terrified everyone was to speak up. How Ghada Kanaan had “marched in with nothing but the truth and a folder full of payroll discrepancies,” knowing she’d be branded a troublemaker. Alma wrote: “She did it not for herself, but for all of us who were too tired, too afraid. I hope her daughter grows up knowing her mother did something brave.”
I sobbed quietly on the ride.
It took me a few days to work up the courage, but I eventually showed the entry to my mom.
She smiled softly, touched the paper, then said, “Alma was the one who encouraged me to go public. She said, ‘If no one stands up now, they’ll walk all over the next girl.’ I didn’t know she wrote this.”
Then she folded it carefully and said she was going to frame it.
That should’ve been enough closure. But it wasn’t.
Because a month later, my ex—Jovan—messaged me. Said he wanted to talk.
We met at a park. Neutral ground.
He looked different. Pale, thinner maybe.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. “I handled everything badly.”
I nodded but didn’t make it easy. “What changed?”
He hesitated, then said, “My dad’s old company is in the news again. There’s a class action. Toxic exposure stuff. Turns out, the mold your mom mentioned was just the tip of the iceberg.”
He swallowed hard.
“My cousin worked there last year. She’s in the hospital now. Respiratory stuff. And I just—”
He didn’t finish.
Instead, he pulled out his phone and showed me an article. Harrow & Brook was being investigated for decades of violations. Turns out, OSHA had quietly opened a case after my mom’s lawsuit and found suppressed reports.
I read it twice. Then I said, “Your dad said she lied.”
“I know.”
“And you believed him.”
“I did.”
We sat on the bench, letting that truth hang in the air like fog.
Then he said, “I don’t expect anything from you. I just… wanted to say you and your mom were right.”
It didn’t fix things between us. I didn’t want it to.
But it did something better—it gave me back my dignity.
I walked away from that meeting feeling taller somehow.
Three years have passed since all this happened.
I’m living in Montreal now, working for a nonprofit that helps women report workplace abuse. The kind of place I wish my mom had had back then.
We still talk about Alma sometimes. My mom keeps her framed journal entry in the hallway. A quiet reminder of courage. Of how one voice—just one—can ripple through time.
As for Jovan?
He emailed me last year to say his cousin joined the lawsuit. She got a settlement. Not huge, but enough to cover her treatment.
“Your mom saved more people than she’ll ever know,” he wrote.
Maybe that’s the point.
We never really know how far the good we do goes. Maybe justice takes its time, winding through years and faces we’ll never meet. But it arrives. Sometimes in whispers. Sometimes in headlines.
And sometimes, in a folded page from a woman who once worked a sewing machine beside your mother.
If you’ve made it this far, here’s what I’ll say:
Don’t assume you know someone’s story. Ask. Listen. You never know whose shoulders they’re standing on.
If this moved you, give it a like, share it with someone who needs to read it, and tell me—has someone in your life stood up for what’s right, even when it cost them?
