My Director Showed Me Her Dating Profile at 9PM — I Didn’t Expect to Fall for the Honest Version of Her
Part 2
The fourth shirt was a charcoal Henley Lucy had given me for Christmas, and it was the only one that didn’t feel like a costume.
I dropped Lucy at her friend Sienna’s house, cleaned a bathroom Renata would never see, and got to Manny’s Cantina eleven minutes early because apparently that’s just who I am now.
She came around the corner two minutes late in a dark green coat, hair down instead of pinned up, and smiled the smaller, more real version of the smile she kept for the office.
“You’re early,” she said.
“Character flaw.”
“I noticed you changed your coat four times,” I said, and she laughed before either of us could decide whether that was too much information.
We talked for three hours.
That was the part I hadn’t planned for — how easy the talking turned out to be once neither of us was performing anything.
She asked about my divorce without circling it, and I told her the plain version: not a bad marriage, just two people who’d quietly wanted different futures long before either of us said it out loud.
“You don’t resent her,” she said.
“I did for a while.
Then Lucy started talking about her stepfather like it was no big deal, and the resentment just got embarrassing to keep holding.”
Outside, the snow turned Kessler Avenue into something out of an old photograph, and we walked because neither of us wanted the night to end in the ordinary way.
In front of a closed bakery window full of cakes that looked strange and beautiful in the streetlight, she stopped walking.
“I want to say something without it sounding like a policy statement,” she said.
“Try anyway.”
“I don’t move quickly with any of this.
I needed you to know that before it goes further.”
“I don’t move quickly either,” I said.
“I’ve got an eight-year-old at home.
There’s no room left for things that don’t mean something.”
She looked at me for a long moment, the snow catching in her hair, and said one word.
“Good.”
Then she kissed me — brief, unhurried, the kind of thing that lands quieter than it should and stays longer than it should — and pulled back like she was the one surprised by it.
“Come on,” she said.
“I’m getting cold.”
We walked back toward the restaurant with the snow still coming down, and somewhere behind me I could hear my own life rearranging itself into a shape I hadn’t drawn.
Six weeks later, against everything Renata had said about waiting until there was something concrete to explain, she was standing in a planetarium lobby holding a wrapped book for a child she swore she wasn’t ready to meet yet.
What was it about one eight-year-old with a list of questions about Jupiter’s moons that could make a woman who’d spent her whole career keeping her guard up forget, for one whole afternoon, to put it back on?
Part 3
Renata Cole had told herself, more than once, that she would not get attached to the daughter before there was something solid enough to explain.
It took one Saturday morning at Marrow Point Planetarium, a wrapped book about women in spaceflight, and an eight-year-old named Lucy asking her a direct question about Jupiter’s moons to undo that plan completely.
She would think about it later and recognize the moment for what it was — not a decision, just a door that had been standing open the whole time, waiting for her to walk through it without noticing.
But to understand how she got there, you have to go back to a Tuesday night in January, to an office on the eleventh floor of a building on Harbor Parkway, where a man named Greg Mason was the only person left on his floor, and one light, his light, was still burning over the snow.
Greg was thirty-eight, a senior analyst at Brightline Marketing Group, and had never once turned in late work.
He did not intend to start with the Caldwell proposal, sixty pages that needed to be flawless by Monday morning, even if it meant staying until the building’s overnight security guard started doing slow laps past his cubicle out of boredom.
He was also doing math in his head that had nothing to do with the proposal — overtime against his daughter Lucy’s field trip fee, the plumber’s invoice that had been sitting on his refrigerator since October, the heating bill that had landed that morning like a small, polite threat.
He heard the elevator before he heard footsteps.
The carpet swallowed most sound on that floor, but a thin current of cold air drifted in from the hallway and told him someone had arrived.
He assumed security and didn’t look up.
“You’re still here.”
Renata Cole stood at the edge of his cubicle in her director-of-marketing armor — dark blazer, silk blouse, heels that added two inches to a height that was already considerable — holding a coffee from the good place downstairs and extending it toward him without ceremony.
Greg stared at it a beat too long.
Renata did not bring coffee to staff who stayed late.
In four years working under her, he had never once seen her do it.
“Director,” he said, taking the cup carefully.
“You looked like you needed it.”
She set her bag on the chair beside his desk and glanced at her watch.
“Quarter to nine.
The building log shows you clocked in at seven.”
Her eyes drifted to the photo taped to his monitor — Lucy at seven, wearing a foam Saturn ring, grinning through the gap of a missing front tooth.
She looked at it a beat longer than felt entirely polite, and then she set her phone face-up on his desk, screen lit, a dating app open to an active profile that was unmistakably hers.
A sharp corporate headshot.
Three sentences of bio written with the clinical precision of a resume.
“Like the summary section of a resume,” she said, not quite a question.
“You’ve used one of these.”
“After my divorce,” he said.
“For a little while.”
“Is there something off about mine?”
He picked up the phone and read it twice.
“It looks like a LinkedIn summary.”
A short laugh escaped her, almost involuntary.
“That bad?”
“You’ve listed your MBA.”
“Credentials matter to people.”
“On a date,” he said, “people care about whether they’ll have something to talk about over dinner.”
He set the phone down and looked at her properly for the first time that night.
“Can I ask why you’re showing me this?”
She was quiet for a moment, deciding something.
The controlled surface she wore around the office shifted, just slightly, into something tired in the particular way people get tired when the thing they keep working toward keeps not working.
“Six dates in four months,” she said.
“Every single one felt like a second interview.”
A pause.
“And I’m very good at interviews and very bad at dates, apparently.
I thought you’d give me an honest answer instead of a polite one.”
Greg picked up his coffee, studied her, and gestured at the chair beside him.
“Sit down.
Let me see the whole profile.”
They sat together in his cubicle with the office to themselves and the snow falling outside, thick and slow, softening every hard edge of the city below.
The photos were the first problem.
The headshot was sharp and communicated zero warmth.
The second was a panel discussion shot, Renata mid-sentence at a podium.
The third was a gala photo — Renata holding a plaque that read Midwest Marketing Achievement Award.
“You look successful,” Greg said.
“Like a building, almost.
Like a professional headshot accidentally got uploaded to a human being’s dating profile.”
She didn’t flinch.
“That is a genuinely harsh observation.”
“You asked for honest.”
“I did.”
She pulled the phone toward her slightly.
“What would you use instead?”
He thought about the company picnic in August, Renata showing up in faded jeans and a white linen shirt, joining a three-legged race on impulse, laughing — full-faced and unguarded — when she and her partner went down in the grass.
He’d watched it from ten feet away because it had startled him, like seeing an entirely different person occupy the same body.
“The picnic,” he said.
“There was a three-legged race.”
She scrolled her camera roll for a full minute before she found it — herself laughing with her head thrown back, grass on her elbow, arms linked with a colleague from operations, looking like a person who had, in that exact second, forgotten entirely to be a director of anything.
“That one,” Greg said.
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look like someone worth getting to know over dinner.”
She dropped it into the image queue without another word.
They rebuilt the bio together.
The MBA came out.
The results-oriented language came out.
Greg asked what she actually did on weekends — not what sounded good, what she actually did — and she told him, reluctance giving way to ease.
She baked sourdough, which she’d learned during a long winter and found unreasonably satisfying.
She walked the lakefront on cold Sunday mornings when the path was mostly hers.
She had once driven four hours to see a restored print of a 1950s western in a small theater in Indiana, because she had strong opinions about old films and no patience for people who didn’t.
“Why didn’t any of this make it in?” he asked.
“It seemed private.”
He looked at her directly.
“The entire point is to let someone see something private.
Otherwise you’re just advertising.”
She looked at the new bio on the screen, three short paragraphs ending with a line he’d suggested almost as a joke — if you know the difference between a good taco and a great one, we should probably talk — and accepted it after a moment’s thought.
“I didn’t know you baked,” he said, handing the phone back.
“How would you?”
“You brought a chocolate cake to Denise’s going-away party in March.
From scratch.
I noticed.
It was the best thing I’d eaten in a while.”
Renata looked at him steadily, something in her expression shifting in a way he couldn’t have named precisely.
“You paid attention to that.”
“I pay attention to most things.
Occupational habit.”
He turned back to his monitor, said something about how the profile looked good now, that she should get matches that didn’t feel like interviews — and she didn’t leave.
The Caldwell proposal was finished by nine-thirty.
He saved it, sent it to the shared drive, stretched until something cracked in his shoulder.
Renata was still in the chair beside his desk, blazer over the back of it, talking — and that was the part he hadn’t expected, that she would stay.
She asked about Lucy, at first the kind of polite question people ask on their way out the door, and Greg answered honestly instead, pulling up photos — Lucy at the planetarium with a foam Saturn ring and a Jupiter brochure held like a research document, Lucy at the kitchen table with a library book about female astronauts propped beside her cereal bowl.
“She lost a tooth recently,” Renata said, noting the gap in the photo.
“Two weeks ago.
Very stoic about it.”
He pocketed his phone.
“Her mother’s in Portland.
We’re civil.
Lucy flies out twice a year.
It’s just the two of us most of the time.”
Renata absorbed that, and then, with the air of someone deciding to do something before she could think too hard about it, told him about her own parents — a father who’d driven a cab for six years while requalifying as an engineer, a mother who’d cleaned hotel rooms before she ended up managing them, both of them building a life through slow, deliberate preparation, giving everything they had to a daughter who’d spent her entire career honoring that investment.
“They gave me everything,” she said.
“Every choice I’ve made, I can trace back to them.
Their urgency became mine.”
“That’s a lot of weight.”
“It doesn’t feel like weight most of the time.
It feels like direction.”
She turned her empty cup in her hands.
“But some nights — nights like this, when the office is empty and I’m forty-one and I’ve won an award with my name on a plaque and I can’t get through six dates without it feeling like a performance review — it feels like weight.”
Greg looked at her for a long moment.
“I know what that feels like.
Not the same circumstances.
But I know the shape of it.”
They sat with that, and the silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, which surprised him.
“You should go home,” he said finally.
“The roads are going to be bad.”
She stood, retrieved her blazer, looked at the updated profile one more time, and then at him instead.
“Those app matches are going to be strangers,” she said.
“I’d prefer someone who already knows I brought a chocolate cake to Denise’s party.”
He blinked.
“You’re my director.”
“I signed the paperwork to move your reporting line to Wayne Holt on Wednesday.”
She said it like she’d already thought it through, because she had.
“That solves the supervision issue.”
He stared at her, and then said, “There’s a taco place on Kessler.
Small, no reservations, open late.
Friday nights they have a green sauce worth the commute.”
She picked up her bag.
“Friday,” she said.
“Seven.”
The elevator doors closed behind her.
Greg sat back down at his desk, looked at the photo of Lucy taped to his monitor, and said, to no one, “Okay.”
PART TWO
He changed his shirt four times before Friday.
The first was too formal, the second too casual, the third a navy pullover Lucy had given him that was objectively fine but that he couldn’t commit to.
The fourth, a charcoal Henley, he put on and didn’t take off.
Lucy spent the night at her friend Sienna’s house, a logistics operation Lucy had organized herself with the authority of someone issuing field orders.
He dropped her off, cooked pasta he barely touched, cleaned a bathroom Renata would never see, and stood at the window for a while watching the snow.
He arrived on Kessler Avenue eleven minutes early and waited in the cold outside Manny’s Cantina — eight tables, mismatched chairs, a chalkboard menu, and a smell that constituted a real quality-of-life argument for the neighborhood.
The owner, Manny, had been running it for twenty-two years and greeted Greg by name on his way in to wait.
Renata arrived two minutes late, coming around the corner in a dark green coat and a scarf the color of winter leaves, hair down instead of the careful arrangement she wore at the office.
When she saw him standing outside, she smiled — the smaller, more actual version of the smile she kept for everyone else.
“You’re early again,” she said.
“I’m always early.
Character flaw.”
“I was two minutes late.”
“I noticed.
I changed my shirt four times.”
He laughed before he could moderate it, and she laughed too, briefly, and something that had been held tight in his chest for days finally loosened.
They sat down.
Manny brought chips and two salsas, one green and one red.
Greg gestured at the green.
Renata tried it, eyes widening fractionally.
“That’s serious,” she said.
“Told you.”
They talked for three hours.
Renata, away from the blazer and the title, turned out to be opinionated about small things — film scores, the proper texture of corn tortillas, whether Chicago winter was actually worse than the summers or just more honest about its intentions.
He disagreed about the winters.
She pushed back.
They went back and forth for fifteen minutes with a genuine pleasure that neither of them was performing.
She asked about his divorce with directness but no intrusion.
It had been a marriage that simply ran past its natural end — not a bad one, just two people who’d quietly wanted different futures and hadn’t been honest enough to name it until naming it became unavoidable.
“You don’t resent her,” Renata said.
“I did for a while.
Then Lucy started talking about her stepfather with easy affection, and the resentment just got embarrassing to keep holding onto.”
“That’s generous.”
“It’s practical.
Lucy’s eight.
She’s going to watch how her parents handle things.
I’d rather she watch someone handle them well.”
Outside, snow turned the sidewalk on Kessler into something out of an old photograph.
After dinner they walked, because the evening didn’t feel finished and neither of them was ready to close it the usual way.
“Is this strange for you?” she asked.
“Walking?”
“This.
The whole situation.”
She gestured vaguely between them.
“I’m still technically your director until the paperwork goes through.”
“I signed it Wednesday,” he said.
She glanced at him.
“Wayne called me, surprised.
What did you tell him?”
“That it was a workload distribution decision.
Which is true as far as it goes.”
“You’re very good at technically accurate statements.”
She stopped walking.
They were in front of a closed bakery, its window full of elaborate celebration cakes that looked faintly surreal under the snow.
“I need to say something, and I don’t want it to come out like a memo,” she said.
“Try anyway.”
She turned to face him, snow catching in her hair.
“I’m not someone who rushes into things.
I want you to know that before this goes further.”
“That’s an honest thing to say on a first date.”
“I’ve been told my honesty is sometimes excessive.”
“I’ve been told mine is too.”
He looked at her in the snow and the dark and the spill of light from the bakery window.
“I don’t move quickly either.
I have an eight-year-old at home.
My life doesn’t have room for things that don’t mean something.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
“Good.”
Then she kissed him — brief and unhurried, light enough that he felt it mostly in the sudden stillness of everything else — and pulled back, looking at him with an expression he was only just learning to read, the one where the public face receded enough to show what was behind it.
“Come on,” she said.
“I’m getting cold.”
They walked back toward the restaurant, snow still coming down on Kessler Avenue, and Greg thought about Lucy at the kitchen table telling him that Jupiter’s storm had lasted for centuries, that some things kept going because the conditions that created them were still in place.
He thought that wasn’t a bad model for certain other kinds of things.
Six weeks in, Renata met Lucy.
It wasn’t planned.
She’d said early on that she had no interest in becoming a presence in Lucy’s life before there was something concrete enough to explain it, but Lucy’s astronomy club had a public demonstration at Marrow Point Planetarium on a Saturday morning, and Lucy handed Greg two tickets with the urgency of someone issuing operational orders.
When he mentioned it to Renata, she was quiet for a moment, then said, “All right.”
She stopped at a bookstore the afternoon before and bought a large-format volume about women in the history of spaceflight — photographs, biographies, the whole record.
She carried it in a plain paper bag and handed it to Lucy in the lobby with a composure that didn’t quite conceal how carefully she’d thought about the gift.
Lucy received it with the focused attention she gave to objects of genuine interest.
She read the back cover.
She examined the table of contents.
She looked up.
“Sally Ride is in here,” she said.
“She is,” Renata said.
“And some women you may not have heard of yet.”
Lucy considered her with the direct assessment of a child who hadn’t yet learned to hide that she was evaluating someone.
“Do you like space?”
“I find it more interesting than most topics.”
“Jupiter has ninety-five moons.
They kept finding more.”
“That seems like a problem that rewards persistence.”
Lucy smiled the full-face version, gap and all, said, “Come on,” and led them both into the museum like a person who had been waiting for this appointment her whole life.
They spent four hours there.
Lucy explained things with a specificity that demanded full attention, and Renata gave it — not the polite attention of an adult humoring a child, but real engagement, real questions.
At one point, standing in front of the scale model of the solar system, Lucy looked at Greg, then at Renata, and said, to neither of them in particular, “This is my favorite place.”
Greg watched Renata receive that.
The careful person who gave nothing away in the office was standing in a museum in a wool sweater while an eight-year-old explained the rings of Saturn, and the expression on her face was one he hadn’t seen before — not guarded at all.
On the drive home, Lucy fell asleep in the back seat with the spaceflight book open on her lap.
“She’s extraordinary,” Renata said quietly.
“She is.”
“I wasn’t prepared for that.”
“For what?”
She didn’t answer right away.
“For how much it would matter.”
She looked back out the window and said nothing more, and Greg let the silence be what it was — something that didn’t need language to be understood.
It came up in December, over Greg’s kitchen table, on a Sunday afternoon while Lucy was at Sienna’s.
Renata had found an eleven-day residential space camp in southern Florida, affiliated with an aerospace institute, for students who’d shown demonstrated interest in the sciences.
She’d found it because she’d been thinking about Lucy, which she did with increasing regularity.
“I want to help pay for this,” she said, showing him the website.
Greg looked at the cost and kept his face level.
“No.”
“It’s well within my means, and I genuinely want to.”
“I know you would.
And I’m saying no.”
The quiet that followed had edges.
“I’m not trying to overstep,” she said.
“I’m trying to do something for someone I care about.”
“She’s my daughter.
Her education, her opportunities — those are mine to provide.
It’s not just pride.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“It’s about what I want her to understand about how her life works.
That things come from effort and planning, not from who you happen to be near.”
“You think I’m trying to buy my way into something?”
“I don’t think that.
I think your intentions are completely genuine.”
He looked at the website again.
The camp looked excellent.
He knew it.
“But she’s eight.
She doesn’t have context for the difference between someone giving her something out of love and someone filling a gap I should be filling.
And right now I can’t match that investment.
Which means it becomes a visible imbalance in the picture she’s building of her life.”
Renata was quiet for a long time.
“I hear that.
I don’t entirely agree.
I think there’s a version of pride that costs the person you love something.
I think sometimes the braver thing is to let someone help.”
She said it without heat.
“But it’s not my call to make.”
They sat with the disagreement.
Neither resolved it, and neither collapsed under it — which Greg noticed, that they could leave something unresolved and still be in the same room, still be the same two people.
He started cooking dinner.
She stayed and helped, standing at the counter chopping garlic with the careful attention she gave to tasks she hadn’t done before.
A week later, Lucy figured it out on her own, eating cereal on a Tuesday before school, the spaceflight book open beside her bowl.
“Did you and Renata have a fight?” she asked.
“Not a fight.
A disagreement.”
“About what?”
“About how I want to do things for you.
About me being in charge of that.”
Lucy ate a spoonful of cereal, looked at the book.
“When I’m at school, Sienna has better colored pencils than me.
She lets me use them.
Not because she thinks I can’t buy my own.
Just because she’s my friend and she wants me to draw the planet rings the right color.”
She looked up.
“I know the pencils are hers.
It doesn’t make my planets less mine.”
Greg looked at his daughter.
“That’s a very specific comparison.”
“It’s a very specific situation,” Lucy said, with the precision of someone who’d been working something out.
She carried her bowl to the sink and asked at the door, “Are you going to apologize to her?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“You should probably think faster.
She’s nice and she knows about space.”
Greg called Renata that afternoon.
“I think I was protecting something that didn’t need to be protected quite as hard,” he said.
Renata was quiet on the line.
“Lucy told you that.”
“Lucy told herself.
I was just standing nearby.”
He heard the small sound that was Renata’s version of a laugh.
“The camp application deadline is in February,” she said.
“If you want to look at it again, send me the link.”
He looked at the camp, did the math, and applied for an institutional scholarship the program offered to qualifying families, which covered forty percent of the fee.
Renata covered the remainder through the camp’s anonymous donation fund, a method Greg understood and never discussed directly, because there were things that could be accepted with dignity only when they weren’t spoken aloud.
Lucy never knew any of it.
That was the point.
The dating app stayed on Renata’s phone through January, an icon at the edge of Greg’s peripheral vision whenever she set it on the counter.
One night in February, the two of them cooking in his kitchen with Lucy asleep down the hall, she finally picked up the phone and deleted it without a word.
Later, with tea in the living room, she said, “I was thinking about what you said at the beginning.
About the profile being a LinkedIn summary.”
“I remember.”
“I’ve been wondering if that was a problem with the profile or with how I was thinking about the whole thing.”
She turned the mug in her hands.
“I was approaching it like a search process.
Find someone with compatible credentials, conduct a preliminary assessment.
I was treating it like hiring.”
“Most people approach it like interviewing.”
“Yes.
But I’m particularly good at interviewing, and particularly bad at letting people see me as anything other than competent.
Together those made it genuinely difficult to connect with anyone.”
She looked at the window, fogged white with February cold.
“I think I came to your desk that night because I was tired of the strategy failing.
I wanted someone to tell me what I was missing.”
“And what were you missing?”
“That the credential presentation was a defense mechanism, not a profile.
I knew that intellectually.
I needed someone to show me the photo of myself laughing in the grass.”
Greg thought about the picnic — her laughing with her whole face in a way she apparently hadn’t known he’d seen.
“You’ve been different since then.”
“I have?”
“You smile more.
When someone does something well, you say so directly.”
“Denise said something in November,” Renata said.
“She said I seemed — and then she paused, and said — lighter.”
“Lighter.”
“Denise’s word.
I’ll take it.”
In March, the snow finally stopped — not dramatically, but the way Chicago winters always ended, the temperature inching upward until one morning Greg walked Lucy to school and noticed the snow on the parkway had pulled back to reveal a strip of muddy brown grass that looked, to him, like a genuine development.
Lucy’s space camp acceptance arrived in February — a matter-of-fact email she read three times over breakfast and then carried around to read a fourth time.
She wrote a list in her notebook: things to pack, things to research, questions to ask when she arrived.
The list ran seven pages by the weekend.
Renata received a photo of the acceptance email by text and sent back a single line: Ninety-five moons and counting.
Lucy laughed in the kitchen and asked Greg if that was a Jupiter reference.
“She remembered,” Lucy said, with satisfaction.
By March, Renata had been to the apartment on so many Sundays that Lucy had started saving her particular questions for when Renata arrived — the ones she’d been turning over all week, the ones that needed more than one angle.
Renata answered what she knew and said directly when she didn’t, which Lucy had informed Greg was the correct way to handle not knowing things.
The Saturday before spring officially arrived, the three of them drove to Marrow Point and walked the lakefront path afterward, water visible through bare trees, the sky a pale early-spring blue that felt different from the winter sky before you could say exactly why.
Lucy walked ahead with the purposeful momentum of a person going somewhere, stopping periodically to examine things — a bird, a piece of ice still clinging to a rock, a ship on the horizon.
Greg and Renata walked behind her.
“The camp’s eleven weeks away,” Renata said.
“She’s been counting since February.”
Lucy had stopped ahead and was looking out at the water.
She turned and called, “Come look” — not a request, an instruction.
The lake stretched out in front of them, gray-green and cold, vast in the way it always was, the horizon clean and far away.
Lucy stood between them, notebook in one hand, looking at the water with the expression she wore when something was large enough to require her full attention.
“If you went that direction,” she said, pointing east, “how long would it take to get to the ocean?”
“Through the St. Lawrence Seaway, maybe a week by boat,” Renata said.
“I want to do that,” Lucy said, simply, without performance, the way she named most things she intended to do.
Greg looked at Renata over Lucy’s head.
Renata looked back at him.
There was nothing that needed saying, so neither of them said anything.
Lucy went back to the water, working through logistics in her head, while the March wind came off the lake and the city spread out behind them.
On the drive home, Lucy fell asleep in the back seat with her notebook open on her lap — a page of calculations, distances worked out from where she was standing to wherever she meant to go next.
Renata looked at the notebook from the front seat, then out the window at the city sliding past.
“I almost didn’t come to your desk that night,” she said, quietly.
“What stopped you from not coming?”
She was quiet for a moment.
“The floor was dark, and there was something about that one light, still on.
I thought, that person is still working.
So am I.” A pause.
“It seemed like a reasonable place to start.”
Greg said nothing.
Outside, the city went past in the winter-ending light, streets still damp, the first green things beginning to show in the thin strips of earth between the sidewalk and the street.
Lucy stirred in the back seat and murmured something about moons.
Renata looked back at her briefly, the unguarded expression Greg knew by now on her face — not professional, not constructed, just what it actually was — before she turned back to the window.
The city went past.
Spring was coming, the way it always eventually did, not as a single moment but as a long, patient accumulation of ordinary days that had quietly stopped being lonely somewhere along the way.
THE END
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This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
