The Office Intern

In my father's funeral parlor, the scent of incense and burning candles still lingered in the air, mingling with a quiet sorrow. In the black-and-white memorial portrait, my father's smile remained gentle, but I would never hear his voice again. Mournful music played softly as I knelt on the cushion, my fingertips lightly brushing the edge of the memorial portrait, trying to capture the last trace of warmth connected to him. At that moment, my phone suddenly vibrated in my pocket, shattering the solemn silence of the funeral parlor. I hesitated briefly before pulling out the phone; an unfamiliar number was flashing on the screen. Who could be calling at a time like this? After a moment's hesitation, I swiped to answer, striving to keep my voice steady: "Hello." "Are you Riley Charles? I am Yosef Chester's mother, Lana." A woman's voice came through on the other end of the phone, her tone carrying an unmistakable authority, as if issuing an order rather than making a request. When I heard the name "Yosef Chester," I gripped the phone tightly, my fingertips whitening from the pressure. Yosef is an intern who only joined the company a few days ago; we barely had any interaction. Why would his mother suddenly call me? I suppressed the suspicion in my heart and replied politely, "Hello, Mrs. Chester. May I ask what this is regarding?" "It's nothing serious," she paused, but her tone grew even more assertive, as if what she was about to say was an undeniable fact. "It's just that Yosef said the toilet seat in your company's restroom isn't smart, and it's uncomfortable to sit on." "Make sure someone replaces it by tomorrow; it must from S brand, or Yosef keeps having diarrhea." I was completely stunned, my mind unable to respond for a moment. The toilet seat in the company's restroom? You even have to specify the brand? What kind of ridiculous demand is this? Before I could even begin to object, she went on, "Also, Yosef can't get used to the company's soap. You have to provide the O brand sulfur soap for him. Make sure it's the medicinal kind—he gets itchy skin with the regular one." The mournful music from the funeral parlor still echoed in my ears, my father's portrait right before me. I took a deep breath, struggling to hold back the surge of emotions: "Mrs. Chester, the company has a standardized procurement for office and hygiene supplies. According to the rules, employees must provide personally for any special individual needs." "What do you mean by providing personally?" Her voice shot up instantly, sharp enough to pierce the receiver: "Yosef just graduated; he's still a child!" "If you leaders don't look after him, then who will?" "And the air conditioning in your office—Yosef said it's too cold, making his joints ache. You have to set it to 26 degrees; it can't be any lower! Not even by one degree!" I finally lost my patience, my hand holding the phone trembling slightly with anger. He's 23 years old, yet still being treated like a spoiled three-year-old? The company is a place for work, not a daycare, much less a private service for a single individual. I gritted my teeth and said slowly, "Mrs. Chester, Yosef is already 23 years old, not a three-year-old child." "The company is a place for work, not a daycare, and it doesn't cater to grown infants." "How can you say that?" she snapped into the phone, her voice laced with anger and disbelief. "My son graduated from a prestigious university!" "And you, a mere low-ranking leader, dare speak of him that way?" "Believe it or not, I'll take this to your company's chairman and have you fired!" I was too exhausted to argue with her any longer, so I hung up immediately. I put down the phone and looked up at my father's portrait; my eyes immediately welled with tears. My father had just passed, and I was still swallowed by grief, yet I had to handle this inexplicable and unreasonable demand. The overwhelm of frustration and fatigue surged within me, leaving me short of breath.