That's What Friends Do
苏珊娜·埃勒 / Suzanne Eller
Jack tossed the papers on my desk—his eyebrows knit into a straight line as he glared at me.
“What’s wrong？” I asked.
He jabbed a finger at the proposal. “Next time you want to change anything， ask me first，” he said， turning on his heels and leaving me stewing in anger.
How dare he treat me like that， I thought. I had changed one long sentence， and corrected grammar—something I thought I was paid to do.
It’s not that I hadn’t been warned. The other women， who had served in my place before me， called him names I couldn’t repeat. One co-worker took me aside the first day. “He’s personally responsible for two different secretaries leaving the firm，” she whispered.
As the weeks went by， I grew to despise Jack. It was against everything I believed in—turn the other cheek and love your enemies. But Jack quickly slapped a verbal insult on any cheek turned his way. I prayed about it， but to be honest， I wanted to put him in his place， not love him.
One day， another of his episodes left me in tears. I stormed into his office， prepared to lose my job if needed， but not before I let the man know how I felt. I opened the door and Jack glanced up.
“What？” he said abruptly.
Suddenly I knew what I had to do. After all， he deserved it.
I sat across from him. “Jack， the way you’ve been treating me is wrong. I’ve never had anyone speak to me that way. As a professional， it’s wrong， and it’s wrong for me to allow it to continue，” I said.
Jack snickered nervously and leaned back in his chair. I closed my eyes briefly. God help me， I prayed.
“I want to make you a promise. I will be a friend，” I said， “I will treat you as you deserve to be treated， with respect and kindness. You deserve that，” I said. “Everybody does.” I slipped out of the chair and closed the door behind me.
Jack avoided me the rest of the week. Proposals， specs， and letters appeared on my desk while I was at lunch， and the corrected versions were not seen again. I brought cookies to the office one day and left a batch on Jack’s desk. Another day I left a note. “Hope your day is going great，” it read.
Over the next few weeks， Jack reappeared. He was reserved， but there were no other episodes. Co-workers cornered me in the break room.
“Guess you got to Jack，” they said， “You must have told him off good.” I shook my head. “Jack and I are becoming friends，” I said in faith. I refused to talk about him. Every time I saw Jack in the hall， I smiled at him. After all， that’s what friends do.
One year after our “talk”， I discovered I had breast cancer. I was 32， the mother of three beautiful young children， and scared. The cancer had metastasized to my lymph nodes and the statistics were not great for long-term survival. After surgery， I visited with friends and loved ones who tried to find the right words to say. No one knew what to say. Many said the wrong things. Others wept， and I tried to encourage them. I clung to hope.
The last day of my hospital stay， the door darkened and Jack stood awkwardly on the threshold. I waved him in with a smile and he walked over to my bed and， without a word， placed a bundle beside me. Inside lay several bulbs.
“Tulips，” he said.
I smiled， not understanding.
