In the final round of the interview, a man wearing gold-rimmed glasses sat across from me.

He flipped through my portfolio and suddenly asked, "There's a gap on your resume. Where did you go during that time?"
I said, "Taking care of my mom. My mom has uremia, and she undergoes dialysis three times a week. I spent two years in the hospital with her."
He took off his glasses, looked at me for a few seconds, then said something that made my back go cold.
"I know. Your mom's attending physician is my dad."
I was stunned. He stood up, closed the office door, then turned around and said a second sentence to me—
"The day your mom transferred from ICU to the general ward, my dad was reported for accepting red envelopes and was suspended for half a year. The person who filed that complaint was you, right?"
I clenched the pen in my hand. I didn’t speak.
He continued, "That year, I was just starting college, and my dad’s salary was cut off. I almost dropped out. Later, my dad was proven innocent. But the person who filed that complaint never apologized."
He put down my resume, looked into my eyes, and spoke in a very low voice:
"The position you're interviewing for today is under my responsibility. Do you think I should let you pass? Should I let you sit at this desk every day with this secret, pretending nothing happened?"
I stood up, bowed to him. He was stunned for a moment, then I said something that would stay with him for a lifetime:
"The person who complained about your dad wasn’t me; it was my dad. Before he died, he told me he had falsely accused a good doctor, and to tell you someday—if you meet me—to say sorry on his behalf."
He stood behind his desk, unmoving, silent.
I opened the office door, walked out, then turned back and said, "Also, the half-year your dad was suspended was the hardest time for our family. But every Tuesday night, he still sneaked in to do dialysis for my mom—never missed a single time."
The sunlight in the corridor was blinding, and the whole floor was typing away at their keyboards.
I stood at the elevator, and someone chased after me from behind—he handed me an offer letter.
It didn’t specify the salary, only one line: No work on Tuesday nights.