I told my boss I was pregnant. Congrats, he said. Take leave anytime.”

I sought 12 weeks of paid maternity leave. Approved.

A month later, my payslip was $0, shocking me. Panicked, I called my boss.

He answered, “Oh, I told HR that you resigned.”

I froze.

My mind went blank for a while before I stammered, “What? Nobody said I was resigning!”

He laughed, unconcerned. You’re off for 12 weeks. Nearly three months. We figured you wouldn’t return.”

That “we” hit harder than intended. I was loyal to the company for six years, not just him. I hung up in shock, my heart beating, gripping my large tummy and trying to hold it together.

My name is Daria Moreno. One month ago, I felt I had a stable work at a mid-sized Phoenix architecture firm. I was comfortable, not rich. I rose from assistant drafter to senior project lead. I deserved maternity leave.

Being told I “resigned” before becoming a first-time mom? I was devastated.

I immediately called HR for answers. In response to my name, Sylvia halted. You could practically hear her swallowing her nerves. She said they “processed the resignation accordingly” after receiving a “email from management” that I “stepped down during the leave.”

Never sent that email. I requested a copy. Her response was, “see what she could do.”

I got it two days later.

Letter of resignation.

Typed. “Daria M.” I sent from a months-old internal office email.

I couldn’t decide to yell or cry. Someone fabricated my resignation. Someone in management approved it.

That was probably Peyton Keel, my supervisor. Charming, smooth, and too smiley. Peyton joined the company two years prior. He made me like him despite his oddity.

I showed Mikal, my fiancé, the letter.

He stared and replied, “This looks fake. Tone isn’t even writing style.”

Exactly.

However, establishing such would be difficult. HR “closed the file.” Nobody paid me anymore. My benefits were denied.

The next week, I cried, planned, and cried. More than money was lost. Losing health care. Expecting in less than two months.

I realized my employer uses Slack.

Despite the odds, I signed into my work Slack account anticipating it to be disabled.

It wasn’t.

My Slack removal was forgotten.

Thus began the unraveling.

Peyton must have forgotten an old chat from a few weeks ago where I plainly stated, “I’ll be back after 12 weeks.” I discovered it in my DMs. I managed project coverage!”

That proved I never quit.

I screenshotted. Texts with dates. Slow timestamps. Everything.

Then I checked company server logs.

Okay, Mikal, the IT nerd, helped with that.

Strangely, someone else’s device accessed my internal office email, which submitted the false resignation. Laptop labeled “PK-Admin.”

Peyton Keel.

He logged onto my account to leave a false resignation.

Felt nauseous. Betrayed. However, I am also kind of angry.

So I planned.

Just one email. Just one.

Send “Resignation Fraud – Formal Complaint” to Sylvia in HR.

Slack screenshots, server access logs, and resignation email headers were provided.

After that, I waited.

For three days, nothing.

A call from outside came next. Legal counsel Lara represented the company. She was quiet and nice—almost too polite.

“We’re reviewing your case thoroughly, Daria,” she replied. “This is serious.”

Not saying.

I was instructed not to contact anyone else at the company “while they investigated.” I concurred.

A week passed.

Then two.

At that time, my daughter was born.

The name is Leni. She arrived two weeks early, after sunrise. Mikal held my hand throughout. I cried when they put her on my chest. I felt calm for the first time in weeks, not fear or brokenness.

But tranquility was short-lived.

A week after Leni was born, the firm sent me a package.

The CEO apologized, sent a two-month check, and stated that “Mr. Peyton Keel is no longer employed with the firm.”

Without fanfare. No press. Just gone.

I wasn’t alone.

Peyton had done this to two other maternity leavers in the past year. Fake “resignations,” reassigned projects, and quietly dumped them. One departed without fighting, assuming it was a “clerical error.”

Another tried to sue but had no proof.

Digital trail made the difference.

A severance compensation and one year of healthcare were offered in exchange for a secrecy agreement.

I didn’t sign.

I only wanted to talk to the CEO.

Much to my astonishment, they agreed.

Marla, the CEO, sat stiffly in a gray office over Zoom.

She looked drained. But she looked embarrassed.

“I want to apologize directly,” she stated. “We trusted Peyton. That was wrong.”

I accepted her apology but didn’t stay quiet.

“You lost three great employees because of one man’s ego,” I replied. Not finding those Slack communications would have kept me unemployed. Pregnant. And scared.”

She nods. I get it.”

I was shocked by her next move.

I was offered my job back. Same title, pay, and complete remote until I returned.

More crucially, she initiated a complete HR audit of the company’s parental leave policies. Including a new policy requiring numerous written confirmations for leave resignations.

That should have ended it.

However, it still bothered me.

I found the other two women. They were screwed by Peyton.

Candace was now a café employee. Another, Emina, had a home-based consulting firm.

I reported the incident. What I found. I fought back.

Candace wept. Emina raged. But ultimately, they were pleased someone spoke up.

We returned to the firm to propose something greater, not to return.

A parent-support program. Paid mentorships. Guaranteed roles. Buddy networks for mothers and fathers. We pitched everything.

Also, the company? Yes, they agreed.

They called it the “Leni Initiative.”

After my daughter.

Two years later, I consult part-time with employers reforming their parental leave arrangements.

Leni learns “architecture.”

And Mikal? He left IT to write a parenthood and feminism blog. It’s oddly popular.

What’s the lesson?

Honestly, this:

Sometimes the ones you trust most disappoint you the most. You can win if you stand up and dig for the truth—even when you’re weary, afraid, pregnant, and over it.

Winning doesn’t only benefit you.

You prevent the next person from fighting the same struggle.

If you’ve felt silenced, misled, or disregarded at work—especially when you needed support—speak out. Speak up. Your voice may start the change.