The fluorescent lights of terminal C humir their monotonous song as Margaret Chen’s lubboutans clicked against the polished floor. Each step a staccato beat of mounting panic. Her flight to Singapore, the flight that would seal a $400 million merger. The flight that represented 18 months of sleepless nights and brutal negotiations, was boarding in 12 minutes.
And she was stuck behind security, watching her carry-on disappear into the scanner for the third time. Margaret Chen had built her empire on precision. As CEO of Chen Industries, she commanded boardrooms across three continents, orchestrated deals that made headlines in the Wall Street Journal, and maintained a calendar synchronized to the minute.
She didn’t do chaos. She didn’t do uncertainty, and she certainly didn’t miss flights. “Ma’am, we need to run this through again,” the TSA agent said, his voice maddeningly calm. Margaret’s jaw clenched. I’ve been through security a thousand times. There’s nothing. Standard procedure. 8 minutes now. She could feel her phone vibrating in her pocket.
Undoubtedly her CFO calling about the mornings premeating in Singapore. Everything hinged on her being in that conference room at 9:00 a.m. Singapore time. Everything. When they finally cleared her bag, Margaret grabbed it and ran. Her lungs burned as she sprinted through the terminal. designer heels clicking like a countdown clock. Gate C47.
It might as well have been in another state. 7 minutes. She rounded a corner and her foot caught on something. A wet floor sign she hadn’t seen. Margaret went down hard, her laptop bag flying, contents scattering across the gleaming floor like her. Carefully constructed plans exploding into chaos. Pain shot through her ankle. No, no, no.
She scrambled to gather her things. laptop files. The USB drive with the presentation that had taken her team three weeks to perfect. Easy there, ma’am. Let me help you. A man in a navy blue janitor’s uniform appeared beside her, already collecting her scattered belongings with practiced efficiency. He was perhaps 50, with kind eyes that crinkled at the corners and calloused hands that handled her expensive electronics with surprising gentleness.
I’m fine,” Margaret snapped, trying to stand. Her ankle screamed in protest. “She definitely wasn’t fine. That ankle needs ice,” the janitor said, carefully stacking her files. “And maybe a doctor. I need to catch a flight.” Margaret checked her watch. “Tears of frustration pricked her eyes.

I can’t miss this flight. You don’t understand. Everything depends on it.” The janitor nodded slowly like he’d heard this song before. “Gate C47. That’s my section. Come on. Before she could protest, he’d gathered her bags, offered his arm for support, and was helping her hobble down the terminal.
They passed the endless parade of gates, each one a countdown to her failure. I’m Marcus, by the way, he said. Marcus Johnson. Margaret, she replied automatically, too focused on the pain in her ankle and the clock on her watch to maintain her usual professional distance. 3 minutes. What’s in Singapore that’s so important? Marcus asked as they moved. A merger.
A big one. If I’m not there, her voice cracked. I’ve worked my entire life for this. 20 years of 16-hour days, of missing birthdays and holidays, of sacrificing everything. Marcus nodded thoughtfully. They reached gate C43. So close, but the jetway was already pulling back from C47. The gate agent speaking into her phone.
Please, Margaret called out, breaking into an awkward hop run despite Marcus’ steadying hand. Please, I need to board. The gate agent looked up, sympathy in her eyes. I’m so sorry, ma’am. The doors are closed. We can get you on the next flight in. You don’t understand. Margaret felt 20 years of composure cracking. I have to be on that plane.
I’m sorry. Federal regulations. Margaret sank into the nearest chair, her head in her hands. All of it gone. The merger would collapse. Her board would lose confidence. Competitors would circle like sharks. She’d let everyone down. She felt Marcus settle into the chair beside her.
Heard the soft rustle as he set down her bags. “I know it feels like the end of the world right now,” he said quietly. “You don’t know anything about my world,” Margaret shot back, then immediately felt ashamed. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Marcus smiled gently. You’re right. I don’t know your world.
I clean floors, empty trash cans, make sure this terminal sparkles for folks rushing through, but I do know something about missing important things. Something in his voice made Margaret look up. See that? Marcus pulled out his wallet, showing her a photo of a little girl with pigtails and a gaptothed smile. That’s my daughter Emma. She’s eight now.
Two years ago, I had a big interview. manager position, better pay, benefits, everything I’d worked for would have changed our lives.” Margaret found herself listening despite her own crisis. Emma had a school play that same day. She was the lead tree in the giving tree. He chuckled softly. Not exactly Broadway, but she’d practiced for weeks.
I told her I’d be there for the afternoon show after my interview. His smile faded. The interview ran long. Really long. By the time I got to the school, the play was over. I found Emma sitting alone in the hallway in her tree costume, still waiting for me. Margaret’s throat tightened. “You know what she said?” Marcus continued, his voice rough with emotion. “She said, it’s okay, Daddy.
Your important meeting was more important.” 8 years old. And she was trying to make me feel better for breaking her heart. A tear slid down Margaret’s cheek. I didn’t get that job anyway, Marcus said. So, I missed the most important moment in my daughter’s life for nothing. And I realized something.
Those everything depends on it moments. They’re rarely as important as the people we’re leaving behind while we chase them. But the merger will happen or won’t happen, Marcus said simply. But right now, you’ve got a busted ankle and you’re sitting in an airport at He checked his watch. 6:00 in the morning. When’s the last time you ate? slept properly, talked to someone who wasn’t trying to get something from you.
Margaret opened her mouth to answer and realized she couldn’t remember. Here’s what I learned from being Emma’s tree costume lesson, Marcus said. Standing up. The world keeps spinning. Deals get made or don’t get made, but the moments we have with people, those don’t come back, he gestured toward a nearby cafe. Now, I’m going to get you some ice for that ankle, some coffee, and we’re going to call someone about rebooking your flight.
And maybe just for a minute, you’re going to breathe. As Marcus walked toward the cafe, Margaret pulled out her phone. 17 missed calls, 43 emails, all urgent, all demanding her attention. And then she saw it buried beneath the work notifications. A text from her sister that she’d ignored for 3 days. Mom’s asking about Thanksgiving.
Will you come this year? When was the last time she’d seen her mother? Really seen her? Not just a rushed video call between meetings. When was the last time she’d felt like Margaret? Not just CEO Chen. Marcus returned with ice, coffee, and a sympathetic smile. First aid kits in my cart. Let’s get you fixed up. As he gently wrapped her ankle, Margaret found herself talking.

really talking for the first time in years about the pressure, the loneliness, the constant fear that if she stopped running, everything would fall apart. “You know what I think?” Marcus said, “I think maybe your ankle knew you needed to stop. Maybe missing this flight is exactly what you needed.” Margaret laughed, surprising herself.
“That’s a very zen take on a career disaster. Or maybe it’s a chance to ask yourself what you’re really running toward or what you’re running from.” 2 hours later, Margaret was on a later flight. She’d called her CFO and discovered that the Singapore meeting had been moved back a day due to a typhoon warning.
All her panic had been for nothing, but she’d also called her sister, told her she’d be home for Thanksgiving for the whole week, and she’d gotten Marcus’s address because a man who mopped floors and changed lives deserved better than a thank you. Emma was going to get a college fund she didn’t know about yet. As her plane lifted off, Margaret looked out at the city below, at the tiny people rushing through their tiny emergencies, all convinced their missed moments were catastrophes.
She thought about Marcus, probably cleaning another terminal now, carrying the wisdom of a tree costume in his heart. Sometimes the universe doesn’t care about your schedule. Sometimes it sends you a janitor with a photograph and a story. Sometimes it takes a single sentence to change everything. Those moments don’t come back.
Margaret whispered to her reflection in the window. For the first time in 20 years, she was okay with being late.