The Elevator Stopped Again
Something strange has been happening. Yesterday, the elevator stopped on the fifth floor—no one had pressed the button. A couple was with me, heading to the fourteenth floor, and the man looked uneasy. He stepped out and took the stairs instead. I just stood there, feeling something shift in the air. “Oh, who just got on? Hello…” I said, half-joking, half-curious.
This morning, it happened again. This time, on the fourth floor. The doors opened, but no one was there. The elevator just sat still until I pushed “Open” and used my fob again to restart it.
And then, just like that, a memory I hadn’t thought of in years rushed back—the police, the sirens, the news.
I have been in this building many times over the past twenty years. But today, for some reason—on the day of the Women’s Memorial March—I remembered Nicole.
Nicole Parisien was a young mother, just like I was at the time. Our children were the same age. She was kind, hardworking, and trying to build a better future. But in 2007, Gordon Campbell’s government had made survival nearly impossible for single mothers. Rent was high, daycare was expensive, and social assistance had been slashed. Women were being pushed into impossible choices.
Nicole was trying to make ends meet when she crossed paths with a man who had been on a three-day binge. He took her life in an act of senseless violence. Her body was found outside this very building. A neighbor saw. The police came. But it was too late.
It was heartbreaking then, and it’s heartbreaking now. But what’s worse is that people forget.
The policies that pushed Nicole into that desperate situation weren’t accidents. They were choices—government decisions that prioritized budget cuts over human lives. And those choices had consequences. Nicole should still be here.
So when the elevator stopped again today for no reason, when the memories hit me so vividly, I had to wonder:
Was it just coincidence? Or was Nicole reminding me—and all of us—not to forget?
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