The first woman goes in and comes out twelve minutes later. Her face reveals nothing as she gathers her things and leaves without turning to any of us.
The second follows. Each one disappears through a heavy door into a room I can’t see, returning minutes later with the same composed mask.
The tension builds until I’d rather be anywhere else.
I’m last.
By the time the door opens and a man’s voice says, “Miss Calloway,” my palms are damp, and my stomach is a fist. I’ve read the same line on my resume fourteen times without registering a single word.
I stand, smooth my dress, and walk through the door.
To my surprise, the interview room is an office with warm tones, bookshelves, and a large wooden desk. Behind it sits a man in a dark suit.
He’s maybe late fifties, with a broad build and gray hair. His face is impassive and professional, but his eyes are sharp. He’s not HR or from the staffing agency, that’s for sure. And the two men in matching suits standing quietly near the wall with that same coiled stillness are not administrative assistants.
“Please sit,” he says. His voice carries a faint accent — Russian, I think. He gestures to the chair across from him.
“Thank you.”
I sit and place my folder on my lap, smiling softly. It’s my teacher’s smile. Warm, open, designed to put five-year-olds at ease. I don’t know if it works on men in suits, but it’s all I have.
“Miss Calloway. Thank you for coming.” He opens a folder of his own. My resume. I see it upside down, my name at the top in the Times New Roman font I agonized over. “I have some questions.”
“Of course.”
The first ones are standard. How long have you been teaching?What age groups have you worked with? Why do you believe you’re the right choice for this role?
This is the one I’ve rehearsed. I give the answer I prepared: My commitment to individualized learning, my belief that children learn best when they feel safe enough to be curious. It comes out polished. Practiced. But also true, which helps.
He listens. Nods. Writes nothing down, which either means he’s memorizing everything or that nothing I’m saying matters.
And then the questions shift.
“Do you have any plans to leave the country?”
I blink. “I — no. No, I don’t.”
“Any living family members?”
“My mother. In Massachusetts. We’re not close.”
He doesn’t react, breezing on with his inquiry. “Are you currently in a relationship? Married? Engaged? Children?”
I blink. My mouth opens, closes, opens again. I’m fairly certain that question violates at least two employment regulations, and we both know it, but the way he asks makes it clear he’s not testing boundaries. He genuinely expects an answer. So, I give him one.
“No. To all of those.”
“And would you be comfortable living on-site? Full-time?”
“Yes.”
“You understand the position requires residency at the estate, yes? It’s not a nine-to-five arrangement.”
“I understand.”
He studies me. Despite my nerves, I hold his gaze.
“Your experience is limited compared to the other candidates,” he notes.
