Taavi Novikov

She was walking across the site when I first noticed how people looked at her—not with respect, not with the kind of attention a site manager deserves. No, it was that sideways glance, the smirk passed between two mouths behind a half-raised welding mask. I’ve been around this work my whole life. Twenty-three years in construction. I’m 42 now and I live in Tallinn, Estonia. I’ve laid bricks in blizzards, poured concrete with a fever, and spent more days breathing dust than fresh air. I’ve seen plenty of bosses come and go, but this is the first time I’ve had a woman calling the shots.

Karin is sharp. Knows her drawings, doesn’t miss a thing during inspections, and has a way of speaking that makes you want to listen—even if you don’t like what she’s saying. But still, the whispers float around her like dust.

“She’s only here because her uncle owns the company.”
“She should smile more, might get better cooperation.”
“Bet she’s a nightmare at home.”

Today during lunch, Tarmo made a joke about her voice—said it sounded like a rusty pipe. The others laughed. I didn’t. I said, quietly, “She’s actually good at what she does.” It got quiet for a second. Then Peeter leaned in and said, “Don’t tell me you’ve got a crush, Mati.” I shook my head, didn’t laugh, didn’t say anything. But then I did what I always do. I backed off. Shrugged and muttered, “Whatever, just saying,” and let the conversation drift somewhere else.

It’s been sitting in my gut all day like a brick that won’t settle. I’ve worked hard my whole life. So has she. But I get respect by default—she has to earn it twice, and still gets half. I’m ashamed I didn’t hold my ground. I told myself it wasn’t the right time, that it’s better not to start something during lunch. But deep down, I know it was just easier not to stand out.

Things won’t change unless we do. But change is slow when silence keeps winning. Maybe tomorrow I’ll say more. Maybe I won’t. But I should.