I know CEOs, and they get sick when they have to lay people off

Host: The office was nearly dark, except for the faint glow of a Christmas tree flickering in the corner — its lights twinkling against the glass walls of the boardroom. Outside, the city hummed with celebration, but inside, there was only the sound of the rain against the windows, and the low buzz of the heater struggling to keep the cold away.

At the head of the table, Jack sat — his suit jacket draped over the chair, his tie loosened, his grey eyes fixed on a spreadsheet that looked more like a confession than a report. Across from him, Jeeny, her black hair slightly disheveled, watched him with quiet disbelief. The clock behind her ticked — steady, indifferent.

Jeeny: “You’re really going to tell them on Christmas Eve?”

Jack: (without looking up) “Someone has to. The numbers don’t lie, Jeeny.”

Host: His voice was flat, but underneath it, there was a strain, like a string pulled too tight.

Jeeny: “Mark Goulston once said — ‘I know CEOs, and they get sick when they have to lay people off, especially around Christmas.’ You don’t look sick, Jack. You look… cold.”

Jack: (a humorless smile) “Maybe I’m immune. Or maybe I just learned to hide it better.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you stopped feeling it altogether.”

Host: The lights from the tree reflected in his eyes, tiny sparks of color inside a field of grey. He leaned back, the chair creaking, as if the room itself was tired of the same argument.

Jack: “You think I enjoy this? You think I don’t hear their voices when I sign those letters? But business isn’t about feelings, Jeeny. It’s about survival. If I don’t cut now, the whole company goes down. Then everyone loses.”

Jeeny: “So you become the surgeon who calls it mercy when he kills the patient to save the hospital?”

Jack: “You always did have a flair for drama.”

Jeeny: “And you always hide behind reason like it’s armor. But reason without empathy is just a machine, Jack. Do you even remember their names? The people you’re cutting?”

Host: He looked at her then — really looked — and for a moment, the hardness in his face cracked.

Jack: “All of them. Don’t think I forget. I know who’s got two kids in college, who’s paying for their mother’s treatment, who just took a loan to buy a house. I know.”

Jeeny: “Then why do it like this? Why now?”

Jack: “Because it’s better than lying. Better than pretending we can pay salaries we can’t. They deserve the truth, not false hope wrapped in tinsel.”

Host: The rain tapped harder, like a thousand tiny fists on the glass, echoing the tension in the room.

Jeeny: “Truth without compassion isn’t courage, Jack. It’s cruelty dressed as virtue.”

Jack: “And compassion without realism is suicide. Tell me, Jeeny, what would you have me do? Keep them on until January, and then tell them when their savings are gone? When the bills pile up and there’s no severance left to give? Would that be kinder?”

Jeeny: “It would be human.”

Host: Her voice trembled — not from anger, but from grief. The kind of grief that comes from believing too deeply in what people should be.

Jack: “You want humanity. I want sustainability. If a CEO gets sick from laying people off, it’s not because he cares — it’s because he’s fighting biology. We’re wired to preserve ourselves, Jeeny. Empathy comes after survival.”

Jeeny: “You think empathy is a luxury? It’s the only thing that keeps survival from becoming savagery.”

Host: The words hung between them like smoke, heavy and visible. The Christmas tree flickered, one light going out, then another.

Jack: “You talk about empathy as if it pays the bills. As if it can replace the loss in a balance sheet.”

Jeeny: “It can’t replace it, but it can redeem it. You can’t measure the cost of breaking someone’s spirit, Jack. You can’t chart that on Excel.”

Jack: “But I can chart how many others will lose their jobs if I don’t act. That’s the burden no one wants to see. You think CEOs are villains, but you don’t know what it’s like to choose who eats and who starves.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve forgotten what it means to feel hunger at all.”

Host: Silence. A long, aching silence. The kind that shifts the air, that makes even the lights seem to dim out of respect.

Jack: “When my father lost his job, it was a week before Christmas. I remember the look on his face — not anger, not fear… just emptiness. He never recovered from it. That’s why I went into business — to never be at the mercy of someone else’s decision.”

Jeeny: “And yet now you’ve become the one holding that power — doing to others what broke him.”

Jack: (quietly) “I know.”

Host: His hands tightened around his cup, the coffee inside cold, untouched. A single ornament from the tree fell, rolling across the floor, clinking like a tiny bell of conscience.

Jeeny: “You say CEOs get sick when they lay people off. Maybe they do. But sickness without change isn’t empathy — it’s guilt. Guilt is self-pity. Empathy is action.”

Jack: “You think I can fix it? You think there’s some miracle where everyone keeps their job and the company survives? That’s a fantasy.”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe you could face them yourself. Look them in the eyes. Tell them the truth — not as a CEO, but as a man who knows what it’s like to be on the other side of the desk. That’s how you turn sickness into decency.”

Host: Her words landed like stones in still water, rippling through his expression. The defense in his eyes began to fade, replaced by something quieter, heavier, almost human again.

Jack: “You think that will make a difference?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not for them. But it will for you.”

Jack: “I don’t need redemption, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Everyone does. Even those who think they’re just doing their job.”

Host: The wind howled outside — a long, low sound that bent through the cracks in the window frame, as if the world itself was exhaling. The tree lights blinked once more, then steadied.

Jack: “You ever wonder why Goulston said that line — that CEOs get sick? Maybe because no one ever tells them how to be forgiven. They carry decisions that no prayer can absolve.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe forgiveness isn’t something they’re supposed to receive — it’s something they have to give. To the people they hurt, and to themselves.”

Host: The room felt warmer now, though the rain still fell outside. There was no resolution, no victory — just the quiet understanding that the burden of power is never clean, never painless.

Jack: (softly) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe sickness isn’t weakness — maybe it’s the last sign we’re still human.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t cure it, Jack. Let it teach you.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. Somewhere below, a janitor swept the halls, a few faint carols played from a distant radio, and the city kept breathing — indifferent, yet alive.

In the boardroom, under the dying glow of the Christmas tree, two people sat, silent, haunted, but somehow lighter — their shadows intertwined against the glass, the way guilt and grace often are.

And as the rain finally stopped, the city lights reflected on the window, like tiny stars reminding them that even the coldest acts can still flicker with the possibility of mercy.