My Code, My Call

“The first name on the layoff list was mine.” Helen from HR slid the paper across the desk toward me. Her nail tapped the surface. “Lydia, just sign it. We’re giving you N+1 months’ pay. It’s more than fair.” I glanced down. Employee ID 0217, Lydia. Position: Highly replaceable. The project was worth over a million dollars. I had written all 470,000 lines of code myself. “Okay.” I picked up the pen and signed my name. Helen blinked, probably surprised by how easily I agreed. “Well… about the handover. Please get it done as soon as possible.” “Okay.” I stood up and smiled. What she didn’t know was this: all the code was on my machine. The variable names were in abbreviated Spanish. The comments were lines from obscure poetry.

1. When I joined the company three years ago, there were only two people on this project team. Me and Mark. Back then, Mark wasn’t the team lead. Our desks were next to each other. He handled the front-end, and I handled the back-end. The project was called the “CloudStow Warehouse System,” a major contract for the company. The client was the largest logistics firm in the region, and the deal was worth just over a million dollars. “Lydia, how’s your Java?” That was the first thing Mark ever asked me. “It’s alright.” “How alright is ‘alright’?” I thought for a moment. “I’ve probably written around two hundred thousand lines.” Mark’s eyes lit up. “Great. You take the core modules.” “And you?” “I’ll handle the product meetings, nail down the requirements.” At the time, it seemed perfect. He wasn’t great at coding, and I wasn’t great at dealing with people. We complemented each other. It was only later I understood that “complementing each other” was just another way of saying: you do the work, he takes the credit. In the first month, I wrote thirty thousand lines of code. Mark wrote a PowerPoint deck. The first slide read: CloudStow System Technical Architecture Report — Mark. I asked him, “Shouldn’t my name be on there too?” Mark said, “You’re so good at coding, the execs will definitely remember you. The PowerPoint is just a formality.” I believed him. The second month, the CTO came to check on our progress. Mark stood in front of the projector, speaking with animated enthusiasm. He threw around terms like “architecture decoupling,” “high-availability design,” and “microservices decomposition.” He said the words more smoothly than I ever could. When he finished, the CTO nodded. “Good work, Mark.” Then he turned to him. “Do you need more people on the technical side?” Mark said, “No need. I can handle it.” I was sitting right there. The CTO didn’t even glance in my direction. At the time, I thought, It’s fine. I’m a tech person. I don’t need the spotlight. As long as the code is good, that’s what matters. Looking back, I was so naive. The third month, the team expanded. Two new graduates joined us. HR told me, “Lydia, you’re our best developer. Could you mentor the new hires?” I said sure. Their names were Sam and Rick. Fresh out of college, they still had that spark in their eyes. Sam asked me, “Lydia, are you the lead on this project? The code is beautiful.” I smiled. “Not the lead. It’s a team effort.” “But I checked the Git history. You made 80% of the commits.” Mark happened to be walking by and overheard. He clapped Sam on the shoulder. “A lot of commits doesn’t mean a lot of contribution, understand? Writing code is the basic work. The hard part is the architectural design and project management.” Sam looked at him, then back at me, and didn’t say another word. The fourth month, the project went live. During the client acceptance meeting, Mark wore a suit and stood at the head of the conference room, confidently addressing a room full of people. I was in my plaid shirt, sitting in the back row, debugging the system. The client asked, “What happens if we see a huge spike in concurrent users?” Mark replied, “Don’t worry, we’ve implemented a comprehensive load-balancing design.” The client asked again, “What’s the data backup strategy?” Mark said, “Incremental backups with off-site disaster recovery.” Every single term he used was something I had written in the technical documentation. The night we got sign-off, the department went out for dinner. Our director raised his glass. “For this project, Mark’s contribution was indispensable.” Mark lifted his glass, all humility. “It was mainly good teamwork. I just did a bit of coordination.” No one mentioned my name. I drank a lot that night. On the way home, my roommate asked, “Why so much to drink? Did you get a promotion?” “No.” “A raise?” “No.” “Then what are you celebrating?” I stood under a streetlight, looking at my own shadow. “I don’t know.” The fifth month, the company went through a reorganization. Mark was promoted to team lead. The reason given was his “outstanding performance and management potential demonstrated on the CloudStow project.” He got his own office, a better desk, and an extra five hundred dollars a month in a management stipend. I was still in the same corner, at a desk not much bigger than an intern’s. HR sat me down for my annual review. “Lydia, your salary increase this year is 3%.” I asked, “What about Mark?” HR paused. “I’m… not at liberty to disclose that.” I later heard from Sam that Mark got a 12% raise. I wrote 80% of the code and got a 3% raise. He wrote 100% of the PowerPoints and got a 12% raise. Seemed fair. The sixth month, another new grad, Chris, joined. HR told me, “Lydia, you’re on.” So I mentored him. The first day, I showed him how to set up his development environment. The second day, I taught him how to read the codebase. The third day, he asked me, “Lydia, how much do you make?” I said, “Why do you ask?” “My offer was for $95k. I’m just curious what I can expect to make after three years.” I went quiet for a moment. I made $92k. A fresh graduate was making more than me. That night, for the first time, I couldn’t sleep. At three in the morning, staring at the ceiling, I asked myself: What am I even doing this for? I was the best programmer. I wrote the most code. I mentored the most people. But when it came to promotions, I was overlooked. For raises, I was forgotten. They didn’t even invite me to the team-building events. I remembered the team outing last week. Sam posted pictures on Instagram. A dozen people from the department at a barbecue joint in the countryside. Mark had his arm around a new intern, smiling broadly. I asked Mark about it. “Why wasn’t I invited to the team thing?” Mark said, “Weren’t you fixing that bug? I figured you were busy, so I didn’t want to bother you.” “Just let me know next time.” “Sure, sure. Next time, definitely.” Next time was always next time.

2. The seventh month was the annual performance review. Everyone had to write a year-end summary and present it to the entire department for ten minutes. I wrote an 8-slide deck. CloudStow Warehouse System core module development. 470,000 lines of code. 127 version iterations. 120,000 average daily orders processed. Mark wrote a 35-slide deck. The title was: From 0 to 1: How I Led a Team to Deliver a Million-Dollar Project. He stood on the stage, his delivery full of passion and emotion. “When this project first started, there were only two of us. Me and Lydia.” He said my name. I was a little surprised. “Lydia was responsible for the foundational code implementation, while I was responsible for the overall technical architecture and project management.” Foundational code implementation. He called 470,000 lines of code “foundational code implementation.” He continued, “We faced many challenges, but under my coordination, the team overcame every hurdle, one by one.” He said “my coordination” five times. He said “team collaboration” three times. He never mentioned my name again. The CTO listened, then nodded. “Mark, your management skills have improved significantly.” Then it was my turn. I stood on stage and got through my 8 slides in four minutes. The CTO asked, “Lydia, how are the coding standards?” I said, “Every function is commented, and all naming conventions follow camel case.” The CTO asked again, “What about unit test coverage?” I said, “82%.” The CTO nodded and said nothing more. When the final performance ratings came out, Mark got an ‘A’. I got a ‘B+’. “Lydia, your annual bonus multiplier is 1.2,” HR said. “And Mark’s?” HR didn’t answer. I found out later that Mark’s multiplier was 2.5. My bonus was $18,000. His was $50,000. Same project, same department, same year. He got $32,000 more than I did. That night, I sat alone at my desk until 11 PM. Sam messaged me. “Lydia, why are you still here?” I replied, “Fixing a bug.” “What bug?” “A bug in my head.” Sam sent back a question mark. I didn’t reply. The eighth month, the system had a major crash. At two in the morning, the client called. Thirty thousand orders had vanished from the database. My phone blew up. Mark called me: “Lydia, figure out what’s wrong!” The client called me: “Lydia, can the data be recovered?” The CTO called me: “This is a production incident! It has to be solved tonight!” I crawled out of bed and opened my laptop. I went through the logs line by line, checked the code block by block. At 3:30 AM, I found the cause. It was a configuration file Mark had changed last week. He’d entered the wrong parameter for the database connection pool. I took a screenshot, ready to post it in the group chat. Then I hesitated and deleted it. I spent the next two hours writing a data recovery script, pulling all thirty thousand orders from the backup database. At 5:30 AM, the data was fully restored. I messaged Mark: “It’s fixed.” He replied instantly: “Great! Thanks for your hard work.” Then he sent a message to the group chat: “Good morning, leadership. The incident from last night has been resolved. After investigation, it was a configuration conflict caused by a temporary server expansion. Lydia and I have completed the data recovery work together. We will optimize our deployment process to prevent similar issues in the future.” “Lydia and I together.” I had worked alone for three and a half hours. He had slept through the night. He called that “together.” The next day, the CTO praised him in the main company chat: “Regarding last night’s incident, Mark’s handling was decisive and minimized the losses.” Mark replied: “It was all thanks to great teamwork.” No one asked who was the person writing code at three in the morning. I sat at my desk, reading the messages, and suddenly felt so tired. Not physically tired. It was the kind of exhaustion that leaves a hollow space in your chest. Sam quietly asked me, “Lydia, why didn’t you tell them you did it all by yourself?” I said, “What good would that do?” “At least… management would know.” “And then what?” Sam fell silent.

3. The ninth month, a new project manager joined the company. Her name was Sarah. She was in her mid-thirties and had previously worked at a major tech firm. On her first day, she came over to talk to me. “You’re Lydia, right? I heard you wrote the CloudStow system.” I said, “Not just me. It was a team effort.” “I looked at the Git history. 80% of it is you.” I was taken aback. She smiled. “I judge people by their work, not their PowerPoints.” In that moment, I felt like I was going to cry. Three years. For the first time, someone actually saw me. But Sarah was just a project manager. She had no say in the engineering department. The tenth month, Phase Two of the CloudStow project was kicking off. The client added another $200,000 to the budget for a new intelligent scheduling system. In the planning meeting, Mark beat his chest. “My team can do this. Give me three months.” The CTO asked, “Who’s handling the technical design?” Mark said, “I’ll oversee it, and Lydia will be responsible for the specific implementation.” There it was again. He oversees, I implement. He presents, I work overtime. I said nothing. Back at my desk, I started writing the technical design document. Two weeks later, it was done. 42 pages. Mark glanced at it. “Looks good. I’ll just add some management perspective and then run it by the CTO.” His “management perspective” was changing “Lydia will be responsible for development” to “The technical team will be responsible for development.” And adding his name to the cover. I didn’t say a word. The eleventh month, Phase Two development was in full swing. That month, I worked 120 hours of overtime. An average of four extra hours every single day. My longest stretch was 38 consecutive hours. I slept on a cot at the office. And how many hours did Mark work? Eight. All of them were spent taking clients out to dinner. At the end of the month, the CTO came to check on our progress. Mark opened the Jira board. “Sir, as you can see, all tasks are proceeding according to plan.” The CTO asked, “Who wrote the algorithm for the intelligent scheduling?” Mark said, “I designed the framework, and the team implemented it together.” I sat nearby, typing on my keyboard, not saying a single word. The CTO glanced at me. “Lydia, how’s the coding coming along?” I said, “The core module is 80% complete.” “And the quality?” “Unit test coverage is at 85%. No production bugs so far.” The CTO nodded, saying nothing more. Then he looked back at Mark. “Mark, I’m recommending you for this year’s Employee of the Year award.” Mark smiled humbly. “Thank you, sir. It’s really all thanks to the team’s hard work.” That night, I sat alone at a convenience store downstairs until one in the morning. I bought a can of beer but never opened it.

4. The twelfth month, the year-end layoff list was released. Two spots from the engineering department. HR called me in for a talk. “Lydia, the company isn’t doing well right now, as you know.” “Are you saying you’re laying me off?” “It’s not a layoff, it’s a workforce optimization. We’re giving you N+1 months’ pay. It’s more than fair.” I looked at her face and suddenly wanted to laugh. “Why me?” “Lydia, it’s a tough economic climate. The company has no choice.” “I’m asking, why me.” HR hesitated. “Your position has been deemed… highly replaceable.” Highly replaceable. 470,000 lines of code. A million-dollar project. I was the only person in the entire company who could maintain it. “Highly replaceable.” “Who said that?” HR didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. I knew who it was. I went to find Mark. He was in his office, staring at his computer. I knocked. “Mark.” He looked up. His face held an expression I couldn’t quite place. “Lydia. You heard?” “I want to know why it was me.” Mark sighed, putting on a show of reluctance. “Lydia, I didn’t make the list. It came from upper management.” “Who submitted the recommendation list?” He was silent for a second. “It was a departmental discussion.” “And the result of this discussion was to lay off the person who wrote 80% of the code?” Mark’s tone shifted. “Lydia, don’t try to take all the credit. The code is a team product, not your personal achievement.” I stared into his eyes. “Then what about the team lead position? The 12% raise? The ‘A’ performance rating? Was that the team’s, or was it just yours?” He didn’t speak. “Three years, Mark. I was the one working overtime. I was the one fixing the bugs. I was the one writing the code. But the credit was yours, the bonus was yours, and the promotion was yours.” “And now, the layoff is mine.” Mark leaned back in his chair, his voice turning cold. “Lydia, I know you feel it’s unfair. But have you ever considered why you ended up in this position?” “Go on.” “Because you don’t know how to sell yourself.” He looked at me, enunciating every word. “What good is writing great code if management never sees it? Did you really think you could get promoted just by keeping your head down and working? You’re too naive.” “In this industry, there are tons of people who can do the work. The hard part? It’s making people see your value.” He stood up and patted my shoulder. “Lydia, I’m telling you this for your own good. You have the skills, but your communication, your presentation abilities… they need work.” I pushed his hand away. “Are you finished, Mark?” “Yes.” “Then let me tell you something.” I looked him straight in the eye, my voice perfectly calm. “The core code of the CloudStow system has no useful documentation.”