Dream job betrayal stories are rare, but mine began at what should have been the happiest moment of my life. I finally landed an interview at the architecture firm I had idolized since childhood, only to discover that the person leading it was the one person I had hoped never to see again: my estranged mother.
This is not just a story about a job interview. It is a story about family, grief, betrayal, and finding the truth when it hurts the most.
Like most kids, I had a dream job. Mine wasn’t inspired by cartoons or fame; it was rooted in admiration for my dad. He was an architect, and ever since I could hold a pencil, I drew buildings beside him. It felt natural. He was my guide, my hero, my inspiration.
Through school, I kept that dream alive. My dad was always by my side, reviewing my drawings, pushing me to do better, and encouraging me to keep going. So, when I got into university to study architecture, it felt like we were living that dream together.
But right before I could graduate, he passed away.
Losing him was like losing my anchor. The foundation of my life cracked. My dreams didn’t feel the same without him. He would never get to see me finish what we started. But I kept going, because that’s what he would have wanted.
Still, grief does strange things. I couldn’t stay in the city where he died. I avoided my childhood home for almost seven years. I stayed away from anything that reminded me of the last few months of his life.
When a job opportunity opened at the company where my dad once worked, I knew I had to apply. It was the place we had talked about so often. The dream wasn’t dead; it just looked different now.
I packed up my life and returned to my hometown. The streets felt different, colder. The memories clung to every corner. I rented a small apartment close to the company. Each time I passed the building, I imagined myself working there. I wanted it so badly it hurt.
Before the interview, I unpacked while thinking about the future. I pulled out a framed picture of my dad and me, and placed it on a shelf like it belonged there, because it did.
I tried to sleep, but the nerves wouldn’t let me. I kept moving around the apartment, folding things, tidying, preparing. Eventually, exhaustion won. I collapsed on the floor and woke up hours later with a sore back, but enough time to get ready.
Driving to the interview felt surreal. My hands shook. I walked into the building with shaky legs, memories flashing in my mind. I used to visit this place as a little girl, running through the halls while my dad worked. Now I was here, hoping to walk in his footsteps.
I sat outside the interview room, surrounded by other hopefuls. Some looked confident, others as nervous as I felt. My heart pounded. Then, in my mind, I heard my father’s voice:
“Remember, you’re better than anyone who stands in your way. Believe in my belief in you.”
I breathed in deeply. I was ready. Or so I thought.
The office door opened. A man walked out. Then someone called my name. The voice made my heart stop. I brushed it off. Surely I imagined it.
But no. I walked in, and there she was.
Sitting at the desk, clipboard in hand, acting as if nothing had ever happened. My mother. Linda. The woman I hadn’t seen since the day we buried my father.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
Her voice trembled. “I work here.”
My shock turned to anger. “How dare you show your face in the place where he worked? You ruined his life!”
She tried to keep the conversation quiet, asked me to close the door. I refused. I wanted everyone to hear what she had done. I accused her of killing him, of breaking his heart with her betrayal.
“You were off having fun with another man while Dad was dying alone!”
She looked tired. “That man is now my husband.”
“And you think that makes it better?” I snapped. “You don’t belong here.”
“I’m just in HR,” she said, trying to justify her presence. But it only made me angrier.
“You think I care? He worked here. You don’t deserve to be in the same building.”
A man entered and asked if security should be called. I didn’t wait. I stormed out on my own, tears already blurring my vision.
The memories came flooding in: My mother calling me with the news. My father’s heart attack. Her affair. The screaming match. The funeral. The silence after.
I sobbed in my car for what felt like hours.
Back at my apartment, I paced around like a ghost. I had no energy, no plan. Just one decision, there was no way I could work with her.
Then came a knock. I opened the door. It was Linda. I slammed it shut.
“Please, Kassandra. Let’s talk,” she said softly through the door.
I asked how she found me. “I’m HR,” she said flatly. “Also… you got the job.”
“What? I didn’t even interview.”
“You’re the best candidate. I know what you can do.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You’re not getting help. You earned it.”
She asked if I was really going to give up the job I had dreamed about my whole life. I opened the door, furious.
“You don’t know what I want!”
“I raised you. I’m still your mother,” she said.
I accused her again. “Where was your family when you were in a hotel while Dad was dying?”
“Because we were getting divorced!” she shouted back.
That stopped me. She explained that they had been living separately for three months before he died. She only visited when I was home to keep up appearances.
I didn’t believe her.
So she handed me proof: divorce papers, signed four months before his death.
She told me they kept it from me because they didn’t want to hurt me. My image of their marriage had been a lie.
“He cheated first,” she admitted quietly. “We were already broken.”
I was speechless. My whole life, I had painted her as the villain. But the truth wasn’t black and white. It never is.
We sat on the floor, the divorce papers between us.
“I never wanted to take away your memories of him,” she said. “He loved you deeply. I just didn’t want to be the monster anymore.”
She reminded me that I had never stayed long in any job. That maybe this dream wasn’t really mine, but his.
I thought about it. My love for architecture started with him, because it was our way to spend time together. Maybe I followed that path more for him than for myself.
She stood up. “The offer is still on the table.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said honestly.
“Goodbye, Kassandra.”
“Thank you… Mom.”
This dream job betrayal story isn’t about choosing sides. It’s about what happens when the truth catches up to the stories we’ve told ourselves.
Sometimes, the person we hate is the person we never tried to understand. And sometimes, letting go of a false version of the past is the only way to move forward.
Share this story with someone who might need a reminder that even the deepest pain can lead to healing.
