That distinction mattered.
She had lost her translation assignment after raising a legitimate concern.
She did not intend to give anyone a genuine reason to accuse her of professional misconduct.
Yet the old contract remained in her thoughts.
Occasionally, she saw the Brazilian project's logo on presentation screens left displaying approved public materials.
Sometimes she heard executives discuss installation schedules in hallways.
Once, while waiting for an elevator, she overheard a finance employee complain that the nine-hundred-million-dollar agreement still had not closed.
The project had stalled repeatedly.
That surprised her.
When she worked on the original translation, the parties had expected to finalize the agreement much sooner.
Now eighteen months had passed.
She wondered whether the disputed clause was one reason.
But she did not know.
And she refused to invent an answer without evidence.
At home, she continued maintaining her professional skills.
After making dinner and helping her mother prepare for the following day's rehabilitation appointment, she sat at the kitchen table with language books.
She read Portuguese news articles.
Reviewed legal terminology.
Practiced Spanish and French.
And occasionally volunteered to help a community organization prepare plain-language explanations of public information.
She remained careful about the limits of her professional authority.
She did not offer legal advice.
She translated language.
Explained terminology when appropriate.
And encouraged people to consult qualified professionals about their rights.
Her younger brother often found her studying after midnight.
One evening, he walked into the kitchen carrying a sandwich.
He stopped beside her chair.
"You're doing Portuguese again?"
She smiled.
"Yes."
He looked toward the page.
Then laughed.
"I understood exactly none of that."
She pointed toward a sentence.
"It says the parties agree to preserve confidentiality."
He grinned.
"That sounds boring."
She laughed.
"Contracts often are."
He leaned against the counter.
Then his expression grew serious.
"Do you miss it?"
She looked up.
"What?"
"Being an interpreter."
For a moment, she did not answer.
Then she closed the book.
"Every day."
Her brother studied her.
"Then why don't you go back?"
She smiled sadly.
"I'm trying."
He looked toward the white uniform hanging neatly beside the laundry room.