Recently, I was asked if I was going to fire an employee who made

Host: The office after hours was a cathedral of quiet hums and dim light — the sound of the HVAC, the distant murmur of printers winding down, the echo of the day still lingering in every cubicle. Outside the wide glass windows, the city lights shimmered like circuitry across the skyline.

Jack sat at the conference table, his jacket draped over the back of a chair, a folder open in front of him. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back, arms folded, eyes sharp but not unkind. Between them sat a silence made of numbers, responsibility, and something heavier — consequence.

On the wall above the projector screen, someone had scrawled a quote on the whiteboard earlier that day, still half-visible under the glow of the overhead light:
“Recently, I was asked if I was going to fire an employee who made a mistake that cost the company $600,000. No, I replied, I just spent $600,000 training him. Why would I want somebody to hire his experience?” — Thomas J. Watson.

Jeeny: quietly, breaking the silence first “That’s your call, isn’t it? Whether this was a $600,000 mistake… or a $600,000 education.”

Jack: rubbing his temples “Depends which side of the board meeting you’re sitting on.”

Jeeny: smiling slightly “So what side are you on?”

Jack: leaning back, exhaling “The human one, I hope. But the investors might disagree.”

Host: The city glow painted faint lines across his face — half light, half shadow. The kind of light that finds people in moments of reflection, when right and wrong blur into experience.

Jeeny: “You know, Watson’s quote — it sounds noble, but it’s terrifying too.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “Terrifying?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Because it means the only way we really learn is through loss. Through error. Through the expensive kind of honesty that leaves a mark.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You’re not wrong. But at least it’s honest. Mistakes are just the tuition we pay for wisdom.”

Jeeny: “And most people would rather cheat their way through the class.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Yeah. They want certainty without the scars.”

Host: The air conditioner clicked off. The silence grew deeper — the kind of silence that makes every word heavier.

Jeeny: “You gonna tell me what actually happened?”

Jack: after a pause “Bad call in logistics. Wrong shipment routing. Wrong client. Right intentions. But it snowballed fast.”

Jeeny: “And the guy?”

Jack: “Devastated. Told me he’d clean out his desk before I even asked.”

Jeeny: softly “He’s already punishing himself.”

Jack: “That’s the part that gets me. People who care enough to feel guilt — they’re the ones worth keeping.”

Jeeny: “Then keep him.”

Jack: “And if it happens again?”

Jeeny: shrugging “Then you’ll have to decide if it’s a pattern or a process. Growth or negligence.”

Host: The rain started outside, faint against the glass — soft percussion for the night’s moral calculus. Jack glanced toward it, eyes tracing the city’s reflection like he was trying to find answers in the blur.

Jack: “You ever notice how companies talk about innovation but never about forgiveness?”

Jeeny: smiling “Because innovation sounds powerful. Forgiveness sounds weak.”

Jack: “And yet, you can’t have the first without the second.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Progress is built on permission to fail.”

Jack: “Try telling that to the quarterly report.”

Jeeny: leaning forward, voice firm “You’re the one who tells them. That’s leadership, Jack — translating humanity into a language business understands.”

Host: Her words landed hard, but not cruelly. They carried truth — the kind that makes even fluorescent light seem softer. Jack stared at her for a moment, realizing what she was saying wasn’t advice. It was challenge.

Jack: “You know, my father used to say something similar. He ran a hardware shop back in Indiana. Once, one of his workers dropped a shipment of mirrors — thousands of dollars shattered on the floor. Everyone expected him to fire the guy.”

Jeeny: curious “And?”

Jack: smiling faintly at the memory “He swept the glass himself. Then told the kid to go sell what didn’t break.”

Jeeny: smiling “So that’s where you get it.”

Jack: “Maybe. He used to say, ‘If you fire everyone who messes up, you’ll end up hiring people who’ve never tried.’”

Jeeny: “Your father was a better CEO than most CEOs.”

Jack: quietly “He was just decent.”

Host: The rain grew steadier now — not harsh, but consistent, like the rhythm of reflection. The window was streaked with it, the city beyond becoming impressionistic, blurred by humility.

Jeeny: “You ever think that’s the real purpose of leadership? Not control — but cultivation?”

Jack: “Cultivation?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. You don’t grow people by rewarding success. You grow them by helping them survive failure.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So you’re saying I’m a gardener now.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying you’re responsible for the soil.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked quietly, marking a time that suddenly felt slower — deliberate. The building, emptied of the day’s noise, felt sacred in its stillness.

Jack: “You know what gets me, though? Everyone loves stories about forgiveness — as long as they don’t have to pay for it.”

Jeeny: “That’s because grace always costs the one who gives it.”

Jack: nodding “And maybe that’s why it’s rare.”

Jeeny: “Rare — and revolutionary.”

Jack: softly “So this isn’t just a mistake to forgive. It’s an investment in trust.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You’re not losing $600,000. You’re buying a better culture.”

Host: The lights above them buzzed softly. The city outside glowed like the inside of a lantern, fragile and alive.

Jack reached into his folder, closed the file gently, and pushed it aside.

Jack: quietly “Alright then. He stays.”

Jeeny: smiling “You’ll sleep better for it.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I’ll probably dream about spreadsheets chasing me.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “That’s the price of being human in business — the balance sheet of mercy.”

Host: Their laughter broke the tension, small but sincere. The sound seemed to fill the space with warmth, even as the rain whispered against the windows.

Jack stood, looked out across the city, and smiled — not triumphantly, but knowingly. The kind of smile that says understanding has finally replaced pride.

Jeeny: gathering her things “You just turned a loss into legacy. That’s what Watson meant. You didn’t spend six hundred thousand on a mistake — you invested it in wisdom.”

Jack: turning toward her “And maybe in someone who won’t forget they were given another chance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world doesn’t change through punishment, Jack. It changes through patience.”

Host: The camera would follow them as they left the conference room — two silhouettes against the glass, walking toward the elevator as the city glowed behind them.

The sound of rain continued — steady, cleansing, rhythmic — like the quiet applause of a world that still believed in learning through mercy.

And over that image, Thomas J. Watson’s words would return, illuminated softly against the dark:

“Recently, I was asked if I was going to fire an employee who made a mistake that cost the company $600,000. No, I replied, I just spent $600,000 training him. Why would I want somebody to hire his experience?”

Because the cost of a mistake
is nothing compared to the value
of a person
who’s learned from it.

Forgiveness builds companies.
Patience builds people.

And leadership,
in its truest form,
is the courage
to see wisdom
where others see waste.