My coworker Jenn went on maternity leave in 2023 and kept working from home afterward, and I took her office. It was a corner space with a view of the park in downtown Seattle, and honestly, it felt like a promotion I had finally earned after years in a cubicle. Now in 2025, everyone’s called back to the physical building as part of the new company mandate. She came in last Monday, stood in the doorway, and asked me when I’d be moving my things out so she could have her desk back.
I looked her in the eye and said no. I had been the one physically present for two years, handling the late-night crises and the face-to-face meetings while she was a face on a Zoom screen. I told her that the office was assigned to me by our director when it became clear she wasn’t coming back to the building anytime soon. She looked stunned, her face turning a bright, angry red before she turned on her heel and marched straight to Human Resources.
HR called me in an hour later, but to my surprise, they actually agreed with me. My manager, Mr. Henderson, pointed out that my performance had skyrocketed in that specific environment and that Jenn had technically forfeited her claim to a specific desk by extending her remote status three times. I felt a surge of triumph as I walked back to my corner sanctuary, leaving Jenn crying in the breakroom. I told myself it wasn’t personal; it was just how the new corporate world worked.
But today I walked into the office, and everyone turned to look at me, and I froze when I saw what was happening. My desk wasn’t just cleared off; the entire office had been dismantled. The bookshelves were bare, my ergonomic chair was gone, and the framed photos of my dog were stacked in a cardboard box on the floor. In the middle of the room stood Jenn, but she wasn’t unpacking her bags.
She was crying again, but this time, Mr. Henderson was standing next to her with a look of profound regret on his face. He looked at me, then at the box, and cleared his throat in that uncomfortable way he does when he’s about to deliver bad news. “Owen, we need to talk in the conference room,” he said, avoiding my gaze. I felt my stomach drop into my shoes as I followed them down the hall, the whispers of my coworkers following me like a cold draft.
I sat down, my heart hammering, expecting to be fired for being “difficult” about the office space. Instead, Henderson pushed a folder toward me that contained a series of internal memos I had never seen before. It turned out that the “maternity leave” Jenn had taken back in 2023 wasn’t just for a baby. She had been dealing with a massive legal battle regarding the company’s previous ownership, acting as a protected whistleblower.
Jenn hadn’t been “working from home” just for convenience or childcare; she had been kept out of the office for her own safety and the integrity of a federal investigation. The reason she was so adamant about getting that specific office back wasn’t about the view or the status. Underneath the floorboards of that corner office was a secure floor safe that contained the original physical ledgers the investigators needed to finalize the case against the old CEO.
I stared at her, feeling the blood drain from my face as the “selfish” narrative I’d built in my head began to crumble. She wasn’t an entitled coworker trying to snatch back a perk; she was a woman who had been under immense pressure for two years to save the company from a massive fraud scandal. She had stayed quiet because the legal team told her that if anyone knew why she was really gone, it could compromise the entire process.
“I didn’t want the office for me, Owen,” Jenn said, her voice trembling but certain. “I needed to get back in there because the final audit is tomorrow morning, and I’m the only one with the combination.” She explained that the company had been sold to a new parent group, and as part of the transition, they were actually closing this branch office entirely. The “call back to work” wasn’t a return to normalcy; it was a final gathering to process the last of the paperwork before we were all moved to a much larger, more modern facility across town.
I had been fighting for a room in a building that was essentially being decommissioned. But then, Mr. Henderson looked at me and said, “The reason HR agreed with you last week, Owen, was because we couldn’t tell you the truth yet. We needed you to stay focused because the new parent company was looking at your performance data to decide who would lead the new regional department.”
He opened a second folder, showing me a promotion letter that was already signed and dated. By standing my ground and showing that I valued my workspace and my productivity, I had inadvertently proven to the new owners that I was the right person to head the new office. But there was a catch. The promotion was for a “collaborative leadership” role, meaning I wouldn’t be working in a corner office alone. I would be co-managing the department with Jenn.
The very person I had treated like an adversary for the last week was now the person my entire future depended on. I looked at the box of my things sitting in the hallway and felt a wave of genuine shame. I had been so preoccupied with my own “rights” and my own comfort that I hadn’t bothered to ask a single question about why Jenn might be acting the way she was. I had assumed the worst of her because it made it easier for me to justify keeping what I wanted.
I stood up and walked over to Jenn, extending my hand in front of our boss. “I am so sorry,” I said, and I meant it from the bottom of my heart. “I was arrogant, and I was wrong. I thought I knew the whole story, but I didn’t even know the first chapter.” To her credit, Jenn didn’t gloat. She took my hand, gave it a firm squeeze, and told me that she probably would have fought for that office too if the roles were reversed.
We spent the rest of the day working together to open the safe and organize the files for the federal auditors. It was the most productive I had been in years, not because of the view or the desk, but because I was finally working with someone instead of against them. By the time we walked out of the building that evening, the “corner office” didn’t matter anymore. It was just a room with four walls that was about to be painted over by a new tenant.
The rewarding part of the whole ordeal wasn’t the promotion or the higher salary, though those were certainly nice. It was the realization that my perspective was limited by my own ego. When we move into the new facility next month, Jenn and I will have desks right next to each other in an open-plan space. I think I’ll like that a lot better than being tucked away in a corner where I can’t hear anyone else’s story.
I learned that in the workplace, and in life, we often see our peers as obstacles to our own success. We build cases against them in our minds to make ourselves feel like the “hero” of our own narrative. But usually, everyone is fighting a battle you know nothing about, and the things we fight over are often far less important than the people we’re fighting with. True leadership isn’t about having the best seat in the room; it’s about making sure everyone in the room is seen and heard.
I’m grateful that Jenn gave me a second chance to be a better colleague, and I’m glad the “corner office” is a thing of my past. It turns out that when you stop guarding your territory, you find that there’s a lot more room for growth than you ever imagined. I’m looking forward to the new office, not for the view, but for the company.
If this story reminded you to look past the surface at work or in your personal life, please share and like this post. You never know who might be struggling in silence while everyone else is just looking at their desk. Would you like me to help you draft a way to reach out to a coworker you’ve had a misunderstanding with?
