I don’t have mama. Can I spend a day with you, ma’am? begged the little girl to the female CEO millionaire. I don’t have mama. Can I spend a day with you, ma’am? The tiny voice cut through the gentle hum of Christmas carols and laughter echoing across the snow-covered park. Kathy Bennett blinked, startled out of her thoughts, and looked down.
A little girl, no older than three, stood in front of her, bundled in a red puffy coat that had clearly seen better days. She clutched a worn teddy bear in one mitten hand, her wide brown eyes glistening with hope. Snowflakes landed softly on her lashes, unmoving like the breath she was holding. Cathy’s brows furrowed. She looked around instinctively, unsure what to make of the request, until her gaze landed a few yards away on a man.
He stood motionless, watching. His coat was threadbear, his boots dusted in snow, but his posture wasn’t desperate. It was protective, calm, waiting. Their eyes met. His were warm, the kind that carried quiet strength. There was weariness in them, yes, but also an undeniable tenderness as he watched the girl standing at Cathy’s feet.
Cathy slowly turned back to the child, her own voice, cool and polished from years in executive meetings, softened in a way that surprised even her. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” “Lena,” the girl whispered. I just want to know what it feels like to hold a mama’s hand just today. The words struck something deep, so deep it hurt. Kathy swallowed, her breath fogging in the frigid air.

She looked down at her gloved hand, then slowly extended it. Because it’s Christmas, maybe we both deserve a little joy today. Lena’s face lit up. Her tiny hand slipped into Cathy’s as if it belonged there. The man approached close enough now that Cathy could see the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the snow caught in the uneven stubble on his jaw. He crouched beside the girl and gently brushed snow from her hood.
“She’s not usually this bold,” he said, glancing up at Cathy. “But I think today she just needed to ask.” Kathy nodded, uncertain why her throat felt tight. She’s brave. So is her father,” he replied simply. There was no bitterness in his tone, only truth.
No explanation followed, no apology for her sudden presence in their world, just quiet gratitude that she had not turned away. The park around them buzzed with life. Children darted past in puffy jackets. Parents laughed as they pulled sleds across icy paths. A brass band played Silent Night near the entrance, where twinkling lights wrapped around towering pine trees.
Everywhere the world looked wrapped in warmth, except for Cathy. Until now, she was dressed impeccably as always, a luxurious cream coat draped over her shoulders, heels swapped only recently for snow boots. Her hair golden and flawless, framed a face that had graced magazine covers and Forbes profiles.
But beneath it all, she felt like glass, crisp, clear, and always a second away from shattering. In her handbag, buried beneath a silk scarf and her leather planner, sat a Christmas card from her executive board. It said, “Thank you for leading us through another record-breaking year.” That was all.
No handwriting, no personal note, just another sterile symbol of success. And here, in the middle of a small town park, a little girl had just offered her more human connection than she had felt in a decade. “Would you two like to walk with me a bit?” Kathy asked carefully. Lena beamed, nodding rapidly. The man, Charles, paused, searching her eyes.
Then with the smallest of smiles, he said, “She’d like that very much.” And so they walked. A trio that made no sense in the eyes of the world. A millionaire CEO, a man who smelled faintly of sawdust and cold wind, and a girl with holes in her mittens and more heart than the sky had stars. But to them, in that moment, it felt like something that just might heal them all.

The snow crunched softly beneath Cathy’s boots as she walked slowly through the park, Lena’s tiny hand wrapped in hers. The little girls swung their joined arms with glee, her red coat a bright dot of joy against the white canvas of winter. Charles followed behind at a respectful distance, not too close to intrude, but never too far to stop watching.
His eyes stayed on Lena with the steady warmth of a lighthouse in the dark. Kathy glanced back occasionally. Each time Charles simply nodded, calm and reassuring, as if silently reminding her, “She’s okay. She’s in good hands.” They stopped at a wooden cart selling ice cream.
The vendor laughing at how cold weather never stopped children from wanting sweets. Kathy bent down. “What flavor do you like, sweetheart?” “Vanilla,” Lena said, voice shy. “With sprinkles, please.” Vanilla it is. Kathy smiled, handing over a crisp bill before turning to Lena again. So, tell me something about you. Lena’s cheeks puffed out as she licked her cone. Papa makes toys out of wood. He made me a rocking horse and a dragon.
A dragon? Kathy laughed, genuinely surprised. Yep. It does not breathe fire, but it guards my bed. Lena giggled. And papa tells me stories every night, but he’s not good at princess stuff. He doesn’t know how to do princess hair. Cathy’s laughter rose like a bell. Well, maybe I could try someday. I’ve read a lot of fairy tales. Really? Lena’s eyes lit up.
Like Cinderella? Cinderella? Rapunzel? Even the little match girl? Kathy nodded. I love match girl, Lena whispered more solemn now. But she was cold. Kathy paused. She looked down at the child and gently brushed snowflakes from her coat hood. “Then let’s make today warm, okay?” Lena nodded. They walked past market stalls filled with gingerbread and handmade scarves.
Kathy bought her a small snow globe, a tiny town that swirled with glitter when shaken. Lena held it to her chest like treasure. Charles watched from the edge of the path, arms folded loosely, his breath forming soft clouds in the winter air. When Lena turned back to look for him, he smiled and gave her a quiet wave.
She smiled in return before skipping back to Kathy. And just like that, the invisible thread between all three of them grew tighter. They took a selfie together in front of a large snowman. Kathy crouched to Lena’s level, cheek to cheek, and for a brief second she forgot the boardrooms, the charts, the years of silence echoing through a penthouse high above the city.

Then came the moment. In the heart of the park stood a giant Christmas tree glowing with thousands of golden lights, each bulb dancing like tiny stars. Kathy knelt beside Lena, helping her reach for a hanging ornament shaped like a bell. Lena hesitated, then leaned in close and whispered, “You’re warm like I always imagined Mama would be.
” The world went quiet. Kathy froze, not from the cold, but from the weight of that single soft truth. Something deep inside her cracked open, a place she had sealed long ago with resignation and grief. She had once dreamed of a child. She had imagined lullabibis, messy kitchens, sleepy hugs at bedtime.
But life and its cruel twists had told her she was not meant for that. And yet here was this little girl, not hers not planned, saying words she had longed to hear, from no one in particular, and now from the one heart that seemed to matter most. Kathy wrapped her arms around Lena and held her close. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Thank you for letting me be your mama today. Behind them, Charles approached slowly, sensing the moment, but not disturbing it. He sat on the bench beside them, snow gently collecting on his sleeves. Kathy turned, her voice low and full. You’ve raised a little angel.
Charles gave a small smile, eyes on Lena. She raised me first. They sat in silence for a while, sipping hot cocoa from a nearby vendor. The cup warmed Cathy’s hands, but it was the presence of the little girl on her lap and the quiet man beside her that warmed something far deeper.
For the first time in years, Cathy felt not powerful, not accomplished, but present and real. The bus hissed softly as it pulled into the snowy lane. Kathy stood beside the small bench near the stop, her hands deep in her coat pockets, watching Lena hold Charles’s hand tightly. “I had fun today,” Lena beamed, looking up at her. “You’re the nicest mom I ever had, even if just for now.
” Kathy smiled, her heart aching with a strange warmth. She crouched to Lena’s level and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you for letting me be.” As Charles prepared to step onto the bus with Lena, Kathy hesitated. Her voice was quieter than usual, uncertain, almost shy.
Would it be okay if I saw her again? Charles paused, glancing at Lena, who was already tugging at his sleeve with pleading eyes. His face softened. If it makes her smile, I’ll never say no. Three days later, they found themselves standing in front of a tall townhouse at the edge of the city, modern, glass framed, far removed from the worn down apartment Charles and Lena called home.
He adjusted his flannel collar awkwardly, shifting his weight as Cathy opened the door. “Come in,” she said gently. “You’re not guests. You’re invited.” The inside was pristine, but not cold. soft lighting, wooden floors, a scent of cinnamon, and something warm in the oven. Lena clapped her hands in delight. It smells like cookies. Kathy laughed and led her to the kitchen.
That’s because we’re making some. Charles stood at the threshold, unsure. Everything was too clean, too quiet, too different. But then he saw Lena, her tiny hands inside a mixing bowl, flour dusting her nose, and his shoulders relaxed. Kathy offered him coffee, not espresso or imported blends, just regular coffee in a plain mug. I hope this is okay.
He took it, nodding. Perfect. Each visit became more natural. Kathy never tried to impress, only to connect. She let Lena decorate cookies, draw on her office whiteboard, and even climb into her lap during meetings over Zoom. And Charles, though still reserved, began to talk more about carpentry, about books, about the things he loved before his world became solely about diapers and bills.
One evening after Lena had fallen asleep on the couch clutching a teddy bear Cathy had found in the attic, Charles stepped onto the balcony. The city lights blinked in the distance like far away stars. “Kathy joined him, handing him a soft blanket.” “She’s a beautiful child,” she said softly. “She’s everything,” Charles replied, eyes still on the horizon. They stood in silence for a while. Then Kathy turned, her voice unsure.
She’s not your daughter, is she? Charles didn’t answer immediately. He looked down, fingers tightening around the cup in his hands. No, not by blood. Kathy watched him carefully. He looked back at her, his voice steady, but thick with meaning, but by every heartbeat. That sentence hung in the air between them like something sacred. Kathy didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
She only reached out and gently touched his hand the first time. No words, just the quiet acknowledgement of a truth both of them had started to feel. They were not just visitors in each other’s lives anymore. Something was changing, something real. Snow had fallen thick that night. It was the kind that muffled every sound, blanketing the world in stillness.
Charles had just come home from a late shift fixing a broken porch when he saw it. a small wicker basket sitting quietly at his doorstep. He froze. Inside was a baby, tiny, wrapped in a frayed pink blanket with a bear stitched onto the corner. She had no name tag, no letter, no sign of who had left her, only a single sheet of lined paper, the ink smudged slightly by snowflakes. Please don’t hate her.
He stood there for minutes, unmoving, staring into the infant’s eyes. They were wide open, blue like frost, and unblinking. Charles did not know how to hold a baby. He had never changed a diaper, never warmed a bottle. But something about that gaze, calm and haunting, made walking away impossible. He took her in.
That night, and many after were a blur of crying, pacing, googling how to sterilize bottles at 3:00 a.m. and sleeping in chairs. He sold most of what little he had. Left his full-time job at the hardware store, started picking up odd jobs, fixing gutters, patching walls, mowing lawns, just enough to pay rent and buy formula. But she never lacked love.
Every night he read her fairy tales until she drifted off, holding his finger like it was the only anchor she had. When she cried, he hummed old songs he barely remembered. And when she took her first steps, he cried harder than she did when she fell. He named her Lena. Not because it meant anything, just because it felt like hope.
Sitting across from him now, Kathy listened in silence. They were in her kitchen. Lena fast asleep upstairs. A quiet warmth from the stove made the room feel smaller, more intimate. Charles spoke plainly, as if sharing a memory with no need for embellishment. I was scared out of my mind, he admitted. But I couldn’t leave her there.
I just couldn’t, Kathy whispered. Why didn’t you call child services? Charles smiled faintly, though his eyes didn’t. because I wasn’t her best option, just the only one who didn’t walk away. The room went still. Kathy stared at him, her mouth slightly parted, but no words came. Her fingers curled around the edge of her cup.
Then, almost involuntarily, she said, “When I was 27, I thought I was going to be a mother.” Charles looked up, she continued, her voice low, steady. I was in love or I thought I was. He said he wanted a future. Said all the right things. She paused, swallowed. We heard the heartbeat at 12 weeks. I cried. I had never felt joy like that. But at week 16, I had a complication.
Emergency room cold hands. And later a doctor with soft eyes told me it might be difficult, almost impossible, he said to carry again. Charles said nothing. He only listened. Kathy kept her gaze on the dark surface of her tea. He left. Said it was too much. Said I should focus on healing. She gave a short humorless laugh.
What he meant was he didn’t want the weight of loving someone who could not give him a child. There was silence again, not uncomfortable, but deep like two people finally showing their scars. I never really cried, Kathy said, finally looking up. Because Kathy Bennett doesn’t cry. Not in boardrooms, not in hospitals, not even in the dark. Charles studied her.
Her expression was composed, elegant, but her eyes, her eyes were breaking open, she added quietly. It’s not that I’m alone. It’s that no one ever stays long enough to see the parts of me I try to hide. And there in that kitchen, surrounded by snow and the ticking of a distant clock, something shifted. He didn’t reach for her hand. Didn’t say anything grand.
He just looked at her with eyes that didn’t pity, didn’t question, only understood. And for the first time in a long, long while, Kathy didn’t feel like she had to be strong. She simply had to be. The days blurred gently into each other, and something in the Bennett household began to shift, not in grand gestures or spoken promises, but in the smallest of routines. Kathy had started teaching Lena to write.
They used a chalkboard in the sunroom where light poured in every afternoon and Lena’s giggles echoed off the glass walls. The little girl would hold the chalk with fierce concentration, tongue poking out slightly as she scrolled big clumsy letters. A amy read aloud one day, her voice soft with wonder. Mama. Lena grinned. That’s you.
Kathy blinked, taken off guard. Then she smiled, though it trembled slightly. Yes, I guess it is. Down the hall, Charles had heard the exchange. He did not interrupt. He simply leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a quiet storm of emotions passing through his gaze.
Later that evening, while washing dishes, Charles watched as Lena climbed onto Cathy’s lap and asked for a bedtime story. It was a routine that used to belong solely to him. He dried his hands slowly, heart heavier than he liked to admit. Kathy was careful. She never overstepped. She always glanced toward Charles, seeking unspoken permission before holding Lena’s hand too long or kissing her forehead.
But feelings did not ask for permission. She had fallen into a rhythm with Lena, and without meaning to, she had fallen into a rhythm with Charles, too. He was nothing like the men from her world. No expensive cufflinks, no corporate arrogance, just a man who could build a swing from nothing, who remembered how Lena liked her oatmeal, who fixed a leaky faucet without making it a performance.
And he was kind, quiet, but fiercely kind. Still, Kathy could feel the weight of something unspoken growing heavier between them. It wasn’t the A. The breaking point came on a cool Saturday afternoon. Kathy had taken Lena out to the park while Charles stayed behind to finish repairing a shelf in the garage.
They had laughed through a puppet show, shared ice cream, and picked daisies on a hillside near the duck pond. They were lying on the grass when Lena suddenly turned her head and asked, “Mama Kathy?” Kathy turned, brushing a lock of blonde hair from the child’s forehead. Yes, sweetheart. Lena’s eyes were wide, honest.
If I already have Mama Cathy, then do I still need daddy? Time stopped. Kathy froze, every muscle locking into place. Her breath caught. Her heart thutdded too loud in her chest. She opened her mouth, closed it. Finally, she managed. You will always need your daddy, Lena. He’s your home. Lena nodded. satisfied and returned to plucking petals from a flower.
But Kathy could not shake the question. That night, she did not come in for dinner. She left a message saying something had come up. She needed space. Charles read it twice, then sat at the kitchen table long after Lena had fallen asleep. Kathy sat alone in her car, parked just a block from her apartment, hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes fixed on nothing.
She had thought the hardest part of letting someone in would be fear, but it was not. It was guilt. What if the love she was beginning to feel for Lena was a thief in disguise? What if every smile, every bedtime kiss was slowly stealing something from Charles, something she had no right to take? And what if her feelings for Charles were not as one-sided as she had tried to believe? That thought scared her more than any boardroom failure ever had.
She whispered into the silence. I did not mean to take her from you, but the silence did not answer. It only asked one thing. What will you do with this love now that it is real? And for the first time in years, Kathy Bennett did not have an answer. Kathy had disappeared. Not in a dramatic storming out sort of way.
She simply stopped calling, stopped texting, no more visits, no more shared dinners or chalkboard lessons, just silence. Charles noticed it immediately. He did not ask questions. He did not speak of it to Lena, who asked every day, “Is Mama Kathy coming over?” He would just smile gently, brush her hair back, and say, “Maybe tomorrow.
” But the tomorrows stretched on, and so Charles poured himself into being everything Lena needed. He cooked her favorite soups, read her three stories instead of one, carved her a new toy bunny from soft pinewood. He smiled wider, laughed louder. But at night, when she was asleep, he would sit alone at the kitchen table, hands folded tight, and wonder what he did wrong. Then came the storm.
It started with a cough, just a light tickle in Lena’s chest. By bedtime, her forehead burned with fever. Charles stayed up with her all night, holding her little body against his chest, whispering lullabies, even as panic settled deep in his bones. By morning, her fever had worsened. Her lips were dry, her skin clammy. Outside, the snow fell hard, thick, and blinding.
He bundled her up, wrapped her in every warm piece of clothing they owned, and carried her on foot through the icy wind to the nearest urgent care center. Inside, the waiting room was empty. A nurse took one look at Lena and rushed them in.
But after a dose of medication and hours of waiting, her fever barely budged. Charles sat beside the hospital bed, his hands shaking. Lena whimpered in her sleep, her small face flushed and restless. His phone was in his hand before he even realized it. He hesitated, then pressed her name. It only rang once. 20 minutes later, Kathy pushed open the hospital door, her coat still dusted with snow. She did not speak. She simply walked straight to Lena’s bedside and knelt.
Charles looked up at her. He had not seen her in weeks. And still, there she was. “Her fever won’t go down,” he said, voice barely audible. I know, Kathy replied. She took Lena’s tiny hand into her own and pressed a cool cloth to the girl’s forehead. It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. Mama’s here. Charles turned away for a moment, his chest tight.
For the next few hours, they stayed there together. Kathy refused to leave Lena’s side. She hummed lullabies. She whispered comfort. And when Lena finally calmed, drifting into a deeper, quieter sleep, her small body curled into Cathy’s lap like it belonged there. Charles stood a few steps away, watching them.
He had never seen Lena look so peaceful, not since the day she was left on his doorstep. He stepped closer slowly, then sat beside them. Lena’s head rested against Cathy’s shoulder. Kathy glanced up at him, and in that moment, the exhaustion in both their eyes faded. “I was afraid she’d love you more,” Charles said quietly, his voice rough. Kathy stared at him, her own breath catching.
“But now,” he continued. “I know. Maybe she needs us both.” Cathy reached for his hand. She did not need words. Her fingers said everything as they curled tightly around his. That night, in the soft hum of the hospital’s quiet corridors, something healed between them. Not everything, not yet, but enough. And for the first time in weeks, neither of them felt alone.
One year later, snow blanketed the small hilltop cottage in soft, glistening white. The air was crisp, the trees whispered in silence, and the chimney puffed a steady trail of smoke into the winter sky. It was nothing like Cathy’s former life in the glass penthouse towering above the city.
A world of cold steel, gleaming surfaces, and polished solitude. That life had been defined by power, precision, and deadline. But this home, this little cabin of pine, and warmth, was built on quiet joys. Its wooden beams held laughter in their grain. Its walls echoed bedtime stories, not boardroom commands. Windows fogged from simmering soup.
The scent of cinnamon lingered in every room, and shelves overflowed with Lena’s drawings and handmade wooden toys. Inside, Kathy hummed softly as she stirred a bubbling pot of stew. Her golden hair, once always perfectly quafted, was now tied in a messy bun with flour on her cheek and warmth in her eyes.
Charles stood beside her at the kitchen counter, carefully carving the final details into a miniature rocking horse. It was for a little boy at the shelter, their newest initiative through the nonprofit they founded together. Their hands moved in quiet rhythm, the kind shared by people who no longer needed words to understand each other.
Their movements were simple, but their hearts beat with the same quiet certainty. Lena, now four and bursting with imagination, dashed into the kitchen with glitter in her curls and paint on her cheeks, waving a crayon drawing in the air like it was a treasure map. “Mama, papa, look what I made,” she squealled. “It’s our house with stars on the roof. That means it’s magic.
” Kathy knelt, catching her breath from laughter and pulled Lena close. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart. And you know what? I think you’re right. It is magic. Charles leaned in, brushing a speck of glitter off Lena’s nose with a chuckle. Definitely our best Christmas yet.
They had called their foundation One More Day, a name born from a time when one day of kindness had rewritten the future for three strangers. Now it served dozens of single parents and children, giving them meals, toys, shelter, and most of all, hope. because both Kathy and Charles knew how far one small act could reach when given with love.
Later that evening, after a simple dinner and stories by the crackling fireplace, Kathy stepped outside to feel the snow on her skin. The night was still. Snowflakes drifted down like blessings. Behind her, the soft amber lights of the cottage cast a golden hue across the snow-covered ground. She inhaled the cold air. crisp with pine and felt peace in her bones. Charles came out a moment later wrapping a wool scarf around her shoulders with a quiet gentleness.
“Still adjusting to country life?” he asked, his voice low, amused. Kathy smiled, her eyes fixed on the starlit sky. I’ve burned five loaves of bread, ruined a birdhouse, and managed to get glue stuck in my eyelashes, but I’ve never been happier.” He smiled, then reached into the pocket of his coat. “I have something for you.” She turned toward him, curious, then froze.
He held out a small wooden box. It was handcrafted, smooth, and bore the faint scent of cherrywood. Inside, resting in dark velvet, was a ring carved from the same wood. There was no diamond, no gold, just a circle of care, shaped by his hands and his heart.
Cathy’s breath caught, her eyes lifted to meet his, steady, kind, and full of quiet hope. Charles knelt on one knee in the snow. The cold did not matter. The moment was warm. You’re not the miracle I asked for, he said softly. You’re the miracle I didn’t know I needed. His voice was roughened by emotion, his words simple but true.
Will you be my wife? Kathy dropped to her knees too, the snow soaking through her jeans. She wrapped her arms around his neck, laughing through tears. Yes, she whispered, her voice shaking with joy. Let’s build this life. Not perfect, but ours. Inside the house, Lena peeked through the frosted window, her eyes wide with wonder.
When she saw them in the snow, she squealled, “Mama said yes.” The house glowed brighter than ever that night, as if the love inside spilled out through every crack and corner. And outside in the stillness of Christmas Eve, under a sky full of stars and snow, love carved its quiet miracle. Gently, tenderly, forever. One year later, the town still shimmerred under December’s snow. But this time, Kathy Bennett was not in a boardroom.
She had gracefully stepped down from her role as CEO, not in scandal or defeat, but in peace. The office lights still glowed downtown, but her heart now beat for something different. The heartbeat of a home, the laughter of a child, the warmth of love found in unlikely places. She and Charles now ran one more day full-time, a foundation that had grown roots in the community, providing aid for single parents and children, and reminding people that even one good day could change everything.
Their home was a modest log cabin tucked near the forest’s edge. No golden handles or marble counters, just creaking wooden floors, handcarved furniture, and the smell of cinnamon and pine. Each corner told a story. Each scratch on the floor whispered of a life lived with meaning. Lena had started preschool.
Each morning she proudly marched in with her handmade backpack and told her teachers, “Mama reads me fairy tales every night, and papa makes toys for my school.” At pickup time, she ran into Cathy’s arms, shouting, “We made snowflake crowns today.” before climbing into the old pickup truck had somehow kept running for 10 years.
There were no fancy vacations or private jets, but there were picnics in the woods, marshmallows over bonfires, and snow angels made while giggling until their cheeks hurt. There were quiet nights reading under blankets and noisy mornings with pancakes that never quite looked like circles. And then came the anniversary, Christmas Eve.
The three of them returned to the park where it all began. The town square was lit up again. Families bustling, music playing, children laughing. But this time they were no longer on the outside looking in. Kathy wore her wool coat and a scarf Lena had designed with glitter glue. Charles held a thermos of hot cocoa, steam curling into the sky.
And between them, holding both their hands, was Lena, now taller, still in a red coat, but with eyes that sparkled brighter than the Christmas lights. They walked slowly past the same bench where Kathy once sat alone. Lena tugged both their hands. “Can we spend every day together forever?” Charles looked at Cathy.
Kathy looked at Charles, their hands tightened around Lena’s. “Forever and ever,” they said in unison. Lena stopped, threw her arms around their legs, and looked up with that old soul in her eyes. “I don’t have mama,” she said, then smiled. But now I have Mama Kathy, and it’s forever. Kathy knelt, tears in her eyes. Yes, sweetheart. Forever.
They embraced as snow began to fall, soft, silent, and gentle as a promise kept. And in the quiet of the evening, with lights twinkling and music drifting in the distance, the family stood whole, complete. Not by blood, not by plan, but by choice. If this story touched your heart the way it touched ours, we invite you to keep the warmth alive.
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Hit the like button if Lena’s wish made you tear up, and share this story with someone who still believes in second chances, found families, and Christmas miracles. I’m Uzi Suburo. BSW5 names CE W1 E O M E Blue. Because sometimes one simple question can change a lifetime. Thank you for watching. We’ll see you in the next story. [Music]