A desperate single father, a paralyzed millionaire who’s fired over 100 assistants. One interview that changes everything. This is the story of Reed Trent, a man who lost everything and found himself sitting across from the most impossible boss in New York City. But when you have nothing left to lose, impossible becomes your only option.
Because no assistant ever lasted a week working for the paralyzed millionaire until a single dad came along. Before we continue, please tell us where in the world are you tuning in from. We love seeing how far our stories travel. The coffee had gone a cold in the waiting area, but Reed Trent’s hands were too sweaty to hold the cup anyway.
He sat in the marble floored entryway of an Upper East Side brownstone that probably cost more than he’d earned in 10 lifetimes, clutching a resume folder that felt pathetically thin in his grip. This was his 18th interview in a month, his last chance before the eviction notice became reality. Mr.
Trent, the voice belonged to an older woman with silver hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful. Her expression suggested she’d seen a thousand desperate men like him walk through this door and watched them all fail. Yes, ma’am. Follow me. And whatever you do, don’t waste Ms. Moore’s time. Reed’s heart hammered as he followed her down a hallway lined with original artwork, pieces he recognized from magazines he could no longer afford to buy. The hallway opened into a large study that had been converted into an accessible office with wide doorways,
lowered shelves, and equipment he didn’t recognize. And there, behind a massive mahogany desk, sat Felicity Moore. She was more intimidating in person than in the photos he’d studied last night. 30 years old, but her steel gray eyes held the authority of someone who’d commanded boardrooms since before she could legally drink.
Her blonde hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, her red suit impeccable, despite the state-of-the-art wheelchair she sat in. Everything about her screamed power, except for the barely visible tremor in her left hand that she quickly pressed flat against the desk. Sit. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command.
Reed sat, trying not to let his cheap suit creek too loudly against the leather chair. Felicity didn’t look at his resume. She looked at him. really looked at him like she was reading every failure, every desperate moment, every sleepless night written across his face. Tell me why you think you can do this job when more than 100 other people couldn’t.
The silence that followed felt like drowning. Reed had prepared for this question. He had answers memorized about his organizational skills, his attention to detail, his experience as an executive assistant at a consulting firm, professional answers, safe answers.
But something about the way she looked at him, with exhaustion beneath the hardness, with loneliness he recognized from his own mirror, made those prepared answers die in his throat. “I can’t promise I’ll be better than the others,” he heard himself say, his voice quieter than he intended. “I don’t know what made them leave, but I can promise you that I will show up every single day and give you everything I have.
Because if I don’t succeed at this job, my daughter and I will lose our apartment. We’ll have nothing. He met her gaze directly, past the point of caring about professionalism. So, whatever you need from me, difficult hours, complex tasks, patience you think I might not have, I’ll find a way to deliver it.
Not because I’m special, but because I don’t have any other choice. The silence that followed felt eternal. Then, Felicity Moore did something he didn’t expect. She laughed. It wasn’t a kind laugh, but it wasn’t entirely cruel, either. It was the laugh of someone who’d recognized something familiar, perhaps another person who’d been broken by life and forced to rebuild with whatever pieces remained.
Everyone who sits in that chair tries to impress me. They tell me about their credentials, their flexibility, their passion for accessibility work. They last 3 days before they realize that working for someone like me isn’t inspiring, it’s exhausting. She paused and Reed saw something flicker across her face. Pain maybe or memory. I’m demanding. I’m particular.
I have bad days where the pain makes me impossible to be around. I need help with things that make people uncomfortable. Most people can’t handle the reality of what this job actually requires. She leaned forward and for a brief moment Reed saw past the armor. He saw a young woman who’d had her whole life stolen from her.
Someone who’d probably watched people walk away over and over again. Not just employees, but friends, maybe even family. You’re the first person who’s been honest enough to admit they’re desperate. So, here’s my offer. Twoe trial. You show up every day at 7:30 a.m. You leave when I dismiss you, and you do exactly what I tell you without question.
If you make it through 2 weeks, we’ll discuss a permanent arrangement. The salary is $95,000 annually, plus health insurance that covers dependence. Reed’s breath caught. That salary would change everything. Sades school supplies, real groceries, keeping their apartment. No more counting eggs until Thursday.
I’ll take it, he said without hesitation. You haven’t heard the worst parts yet, Felicity warned, something almost like concern crossing her face. It doesn’t matter. I’ll take it. For the first time, something shifted in her expression. The steel in her eyes softened just slightly, and Reed realized that beneath all that armor was someone who’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone stay.
“Be here at 7:30 tomorrow morning, and Mr. Trent, don’t make me regret this.” “I won’t,” he promised, meaning it with every fiber of his being. As he stood to leave, Felicity stopped him with one more question. “Your daughter, how old is she?” six. Her name is Sadie. Something unreadable crossed Felicity’s face. For a moment, she looked almost vulnerable.
If you need to leave by 3:30 to pick her up, we’ll make it work. I’m not a monster. Whatever people say about me. Reed felt something crack in his chest. This woman, with all her wealth and success and impossible reputation, had just shown him more consideration than any interviewer in the past year.
Thank you, he managed, his voice rough with emotion he couldn’t quite hide. Reed arrived at 7:25 the next morning, too terrified of being late to risk cutting it close. The same severe assistant, he’d learned her name was Judith, led him through the Brownstone’s morning routine with military precision.
“Miss Moore rises at 6:00,” Judith explained as they walked through the first floor. She handles her morning therapy independently, but breakfast is at 7:45 sharp. You’ll coordinate her schedule, manage her correspondence, accompany her to all meetings, and handle any additional tasks she assigns. Questions? No, ma’am. Good. Don’t touch anything without permission. Don’t ask personal questions. Don’t expect praise.
If she’s satisfied with your work, you’ll know because you’ll still be employed tomorrow. The morning passed in a blur of tasks that seemed designed to test his competence. Organizing Felicity’s calendar required juggling board meetings, physical therapy appointments, conference calls, and what Margaret cryptically referred to as difficult days blocked out in red. “What are the red days?” Reed asked.
Judith’s expression tightened. “Days when the pain is worse, days when you’ll need to be particularly patient. Days when most assistants quit.” Reed was reviewing the schedule when Felicity wheeled into the office at exactly 7:45, dressed in a navy suit that probably cost more than his monthly rent used to be. “Coffee,” she said without preamble.
“Black, no sugar, in the blue mug on the third shelf.” Reed moved quickly, grateful he’d memorized the kitchen layout during Judith’s tour. When he returned with the coffee, blue mug, black, no sugar, Felicity took it without comment. No thank you, no acknowledgement, just acceptance of what she expected him to deliver correctly.
The morning continued like that. Short commands, immediate execution, zero feedback. Reed scheduled a conference call, printed documents for a board meeting, and fielded emails from her executive team at Moore Innovations, the tech company she’d built from nothing after dropping out of MIT at 19. He’d researched her last night, staying up until 2:00 a.m. despite the exhaustion.
Felicity Moore, tech prodigy, self-made millionaire by 25, CEO of a company specializing in accessibility software and adaptive devices. Then at 28, a horseback riding accident during a corporate retreat, paralyzed from the chest down two years ago. the same amount of time since Reed’s life had fallen apart. He pushed the thought away, focusing on the task in front of him.
Felicity was reviewing a presentation for an investor meeting, her fingers flying across an adaptive keyboard with practiced ease. “This slide is wrong,” she said suddenly. “The market projection is outdated. Pull the latest data from the Q2 report and update it. I need it done in 20 minutes.” Reed’s pulse spiked. He hadn’t used this kind of software since his old job, the one he’d lost after everything with Cassidy.
No, don’t think about that now. He pulled up the files, found the data, and rebuilt the slide with 5 minutes to spare. When he showed it to Felicity, she studied it for a long moment. Acceptable, she said finally, and Reed felt absurdly proud of that single word. The first difficult day came on his fourth day of work.
Reed arrived at 7:30 to find Judith waiting with an expression that might have been sympathy on anyone else’s face. “She’s having a bad morning,” Judith warned. “Physical therapy didn’t go well. The pain is worse than usual. If you can’t handle it, now’s the time to leave.” “I’m not leaving,” Reed said quietly.
Judith studied him for a moment, then nodded. Well see. When Reed entered the office, Felicity was at her desk, but everything about her posture screamed pain. Her jaw was tight, her movements careful, and when she looked up at him, her eyes were shadowed with exhaustion. “I need my medication,” she said, her voice clicked. “The bottle in the second drawer, left side of the desk.
Reed found it quickly along with a glass of water he’d learned to keep filled on the credenza. “I don’t need you hovering,” she snapped when he handed them to her. “Just do your job.” Reed stepped back, giving her space. The morning was brutal. Felicity’s usual sharp commands became cutting criticisms. “The coffee was too hot. The schedule was organized wrong, even though he’d done it exactly like yesterday.
The email he drafted was juvenile and needed to be completely rewritten. Reed rewrote it twice, then a third time before she accepted it with a dismissive wave. By noon, he understood why people quit. This wasn’t just demanding. This was impossible. Nothing was good enough. Every task was wrong somehow, even when he did exactly what she’d asked.
But something kept him from walking out. Maybe it was the way her hand shook when she reached for her coffee. Maybe it was the tightness around her eyes that spoke of pain he couldn’t imagine. Or maybe it was the flash of something almost like regret when she snapped at him for the sixth time that hour.
Or maybe it was the memory of Sadi this morning asking if they could afford the field trip to the science museum next month, the one that cost $30 he didn’t have. The investor meeting is in an hour, Felicity said at 1:30. I need you to drive me. Reed blinked. Drive you. Do you not have a license, Mr. Trent? The sarcasm was thick. No, I do. I just Yes. I’ll get the car.
The accessible van was parked in a private garage behind the brownstone. Judith showed him how to operate the wheelchair lift, and within 20 minutes, they were navigating Manhattan traffic toward a glass tower office building in Midtown. Reed had forgotten what this felt like, being part of something important, sitting in traffic on the way to a meeting that mattered.
He’d spent so long scraping by, focused only on survival, that he almost forgot there was a whole world of business and ambition still turning without him. “You’re quiet,” Felicity observed from the passenger seat. “I’m concentrating on driving, which is partially true. Everyone talks to me. They try to fill the silence with small talk or questions they think I want to answer. You don’t.
Reed glanced at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road. Would you prefer if I did? No, she said, and he heard something almost like approval in her tone. I wouldn’t. They rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence.
The investor meeting was held in a conference room that overlooked Central Park. Reed helped Felicity set up her presentation materials, then took a seat in the back corner as instructed. He watched as she transformed. The woman who’d been sharp and in pain that morning became someone else entirely, confident, commanding, brilliant. She presented more innovation’s latest accessibility software with the kind of passion that made investors lean forward in their chairs.
She fielded tough questions with ease, turning every challenge into an opportunity to showcase her expertise. This was why she’d built a $340 million company before turning 30. When one investor asked about her condition and whether it affected her ability to lead, Felicity’s smile turned razor sharp. My paralysis affects my legs, not my mind.
And it gave me firstirhand experience with the exact market we’re serving. I’d argue that makes me more qualified, not less. The investor had the grace to look embarrassed. On the drive back, Felicity was quiet again, but it was a different kind of quiet. Less brittle, less guarded. “You did well today,” she said as they pulled into the garage. “Red nearly swerved.
” “I Thank you.” “Don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Trent. you’re still on trial. But there was something almost playful in her tone. The two-week trial period ended on a Friday. Reed had shown up every day at 7:30, left at 3:25 to pick up Sadi from school, and handled every impossible task Felicity threw at him.
He’d survived three more difficult days, learned to anticipate her needs before she voiced them, and stopped flinching when she snapped at him. He had also started to notice things. The way she tensed before admitting she needed help with something. The way she rubbed her left wrist when the pain was bad, but she didn’t want to take more medication.
The way she stared out the window sometimes when she thought he wasn’t looking, her expression distant and achingly lonely. On Friday afternoon, Felicity called him into her office at 2:30, earlier than usual. “Sit,” she said, and Reed’s stomach dropped. This was it. He’d failed somehow. She was letting him go.
“You’ve made it two weeks,” Felicity said, her expression unreadable. “That’s longer than 80% of your predecessors.” Reed waited, barely breathing. “You have taken care of me. Yes. The permanent position is yours if you want it. 95,000 annually. Health insurance, including dental and vision for you and your daughter. two weeks paid vacation and a standard holiday schedule. You’ll report directly to me
and your hours will be 7:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. Monday through Friday with occasional evening or weekend work as needed with advanced notice. She paused and something shifted in her expression. I should tell you that this job won’t get easier. There will be more bad days, more moments when I’m impossible to work with, more times when you’ll wonder why you’re putting up with this.
She looked directly at him. But you’ve earned this position, Mr. Trent. You’ve shown up. You’ve been reliable, and you haven’t treated me like I’m fragile. So, I’m asking, do you want this job? Reed thought about the eviction notice he’d finally been able to pay off, about the real groceries in his fridge, about Sadi’s excitement when he’d told her they could stay in their apartment.
But he also thought about the woman sitting across from him, brilliant and prickly, and so determined not to need anyone that she’d forgotten how to let someone care. Yes, he said firmly. I want this job. Then it’s yours. Felicity extended her hand and Reed shook it. Her grip was surprisingly strong. And Mr. Trent, you can call me Felicity now.
We’re past the formal stage. Something warm unfurled in Reed’s chest. Then you should call me Reed. The smallest smile touched her lips. All right then, Reed. Welcome to More Innovations. The next 3 months passed in a rhythm that became surprisingly comfortable. Reed learned Felicity’s patterns. The way she worked best in the early morning before the day’s stress accumulated.
The way she needed exactly 14 minutes between physical therapy and her first meeting to compose herself. The way she preferred her office completely silent when reviewing financials, but didn’t mind conversation during administrative tasks. He also learned to read her moods.
The days when she woke up in pain were marked by a tightness around her mouth that never quite faded. The days when she was frustrated by her limitations showed in the way she gripped her wheelchairs controls just a little too hard. The rare good days were signaled by the way she actually smiled at Judith’s terrible jokes during breakfast.
And slowly, carefully, Felicity started to open up. It began with small things. A comment about a difficult board member, a frustrated observation about her physical therapist’s new experimental approach, an off-hand mention of how she’d started her company in a cramped apartment in Brooklyn, coding for 18 hours straight on caffeine and ambition.
Reed matched her vulnerability with his own carefully, gradually during late night work sessions when the brownstone was quiet except for the hum of computers and the distant sounds of the city. How long were you married?” Felicity asked one evening in early October, four months into his employment. They were preparing for a presentation to a potential partner, and Reed had been updating slides for the past 2 hours.
The question caught him off guard, and he looked up to find Felicity watching him with genuine curiosity. “8 years,” he said quietly. “We met in college. Cassidy was studying physical therapy. I was in business administration.” “Cassidy,” Felicity repeated. That’s a beautiful name. Reed nodded, feeling the familiar ache in his chest, but it wasn’t the crushing pain it used to be.
Time and stability had softened it into something gentler. She was amazing, smart, funny, ridiculously patient with me when I was stressed about exams. “What happened?” Felicity asked, then quickly added, “You don’t have to answer if No, it’s okay.” Reed set down his laptop. She had a brain aneurysm two years ago, undiagnosed.
She was working at a rehabilitation center treating a patient in the hydrotherapy pool when she had a seizure. By the time they got her to the hospital, he didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. I’m sorry, Reed. That’s devastating. The worst part was having to tell Sadie that mommy wasn’t coming home. She was only four. How do you explain death to a 4-year-old? I don’t know, Felicity admitted.
But from what I’ve seen, you’re doing an incredible job with her. Reed glanced up, surprised by the warmth in her tone. She talks about you constantly, Felicity continued. Daddy says this, Daddy does that. She thinks you hung the moon, Reed. That’s not nothing. Something tightened in Reed’s throat. Thank you. That that means a lot.
Felicity looked like she wanted to say something else, but instead she redirected. Tell me about her. What’s Satie like? Reed felt himself smile, the real kind that he hadn’t managed much in the past 2 years. She’s incredible, 6 years old and already reading at a third grade level. She loves dancing, even though we can’t afford proper lessons.
She’s obsessed with butterflies and asks approximately 200 questions an hour. She sounds wonderful, Felicity said softly. She is. She’s the only reason I’m still standing. Reed paused, then added, “This job saved us. I need you to know that the day you hired me, we were about to lose our apartment. Sadi was wearing the same pajamas for 3 days because I couldn’t afford laundry detergent. I was stretching eggs until my unemployment check arrived.
” Felicity’s expression shifted. “Surprise? Then something that might have been pain. I didn’t know it was that bad,” she said quietly. I didn’t want you to, Reed admitted. I was terrified you’d see me as too desperate, too risky. But the truth is, you saved my daughter’s life. You gave us stability when we had nothing. “You earned it,” Felicity said firmly.
“You show up, you work harder than anyone I’ve ever employed, and you treat me like a person instead of a condition. That’s worth far more than $95,000.” Their eyes met and something passed between them. Recognition, understanding, connection. Can I ask you something? Reed ventured. You just did, Felicity said. But there was a smile in her voice.
Why did you hire me? Really? Felicity was quiet for so long. Reed thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she said very softly, “Because you were the first person who looked at me and saw someone worth staying for. Not the wheelchair, not the money, not the challenge of working for an impossible boss. You saw me. Reed’s breath caught. Everyone else who walks through that door sees Felicity Moore, the paralyzed tech CEO.
They see someone to pity or someone to be inspired by or someone to prove themselves against. But you saw someone who needed help and you needed a chance. And maybe maybe I was hoping you’d understand what it’s like to have your whole life ripped away. I do understand, Reed said quietly. I really do. I know, Felicity whispered. That’s why you’re still here.
The turning point came in November on a Tuesday that started like any other. Reed arrived at 7:30 to find Felicity already in her office, staring at her computer screen with an expression he couldn’t quite read. “Good morning,” he said carefully. “Coffee?” “No, close the door.” Reed’s stomach tightened as he did what she asked.
“Is everything okay?” “My physical therapist called this morning. He wants to try a new treatment protocol. It’s experimental, painful, and has about a 30% success rate for people with my level of injury. Success rate for what? Reed asked gently. Regaining some sensation. Maybe some movement in my legs. Her voice was carefully neutral, but Reed could hear the hope underneath. Hope that terrified her.
Are you going to try it? I don’t know. Finally, she looked at me and Reed was startled by the vulnerability in her eyes. What if I put myself through months of pain and it doesn’t work? What if I let myself hope and then lose all over again? Reed moved closer, crouching beside her wheelchair so they were eye level. What if it does work? That might be worse, Felicity whispered.
Because then I’d have to grieve all over again for the two years I lost. I’d have to face how much I gave up because I was too scared to try. Felicity, you didn’t give up anything. You built a company. You led a team. You created technology that helps thousands of people. You survived something that would have destroyed most people. That’s not giving up. That’s courage.
It doesn’t feel like courage, she admitted. It feels like cowardice. Like I’m too afraid to try because failing would confirm what I already believe about myself. What do you believe about yourself? That I’m broken, she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her. That no amount of success or money or achievement can fix what I lost that day.
Reed reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and covered her hand with his. She didn’t pull away. You’re not broken. You’re healing. There’s a difference. Felicity’s eyes glistened. How can you be so sure? because I’m healing too,” Reed said simply. “Two years ago, I thought my life was over when Cassidy died. I thought I’d never feel anything but grief and fear again.
But you gave me a chance. And slowly, without even realizing it, I started living instead of just surviving.” He squeezed her hand gently. “Try the treatment, Felicity. Try it because you deserve the chance, not because you’re broken and need fixing. And if it doesn’t work, you’ll still be the same brilliant, impossible, incredible person you are right now.
A single tear slipped down Felicity’s cheek. Will you be there during the treatments? Every single one, Reed promised. If you want me there. I do. I really do. The treatment started two weeks later. Reed rearranged Felicity’s entire schedule to accommodate three sessions per week, each lasting 2 hours and leaving her exhausted and in pain.
He drove her to the facility, waited in the observation room, and drove her home afterward while she sat in careful silence, processing what her body had just endured. After the fourth session, she cried in the car, harsh, painful sobs that she tried to muffle behind her hand. Reed pulled over into a grocery store parking lot, put the car in park, and said, “It’s okay.
You don’t have to hold it in.” “It hurts so much.” She gasped between sobs. “Reed. It hurts. I know. I’m sorry. They’re essentially retraining my nervous system. It feels like fire and electricity. And she broke off, crying harder. Reed reached over and took her hand, holding on while she fell apart. He didn’t offer platitudes or false hope. He just stayed.
When the crying finally subsided, Felicity wiped her face with shaking hands. I’m sorry. That was unprofessional. You’re human, Felicity. That’s not unprofessional. It’s real. She looked at him with red rimmed eyes. No one’s seen me cry since the accident. Not my parents, not my friends, not Judith, just you.
Then I’m honored, Reed said quietly. And I meant what I said. I’ll be here for every session. You don’t have to do this alone. Something shifted in Felicity’s expression. Gratitude, yes, but also something deeper. Something that made Reed’s heart beat faster. “Thank you,” she whispered, for everything.
In December, Reed’s child care arrangement fell through on a morning when Felicity had an important video conference with international investors. He called Judith in a panic at 7:15. “My babysitter is sick and Sadie’s school has a half day. I can try to find Bring her,” Judith interrupted. What? Bring your daughter. Miss Moore won’t mind. Reed wasn’t so sure about that, but he had no other options.
He arrived at 7:40 with Sadie in tow, her backpack full of coloring books, and her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm. She was wearing her favorite pink dress, and had insisted on putting her hair in pigtails all by herself. “I’m so sorry about this,” Reed said as he led Sadie into the office. “I promise she’ll be quiet. She’s got activities.” and Reed.
It’s fine, Felicity said. And to his shock, she was smiling. A real smile. You must be Sadie. Sadie, normally shy around strangers, stared at Felicity with wide eyes. Are you Daddy’s boss? I am. You’re really pretty, Sadie said with the blunt honesty only six-year-olds can manage.
Why are you in a wheelchair? Sadie, Reed’s face flushed. We talked about “It’s okay,” Felicity said, and her smile didn’t waver. She wheeled closer to Sades level. “I was in an accident a few years ago that hurt my spine. Now my legs don’t work like they used to, so I use a wheelchair to get around. Does it hurt?” Sadi asked with concern. “Sometimes,” Felicity admitted.
“But I’m learning to manage it.” Sadi considered this seriously. “My mommy died because her brain got hurt. Daddy says she’s in heaven now, but I think heaven is just a nice way of saying she can’t come back. The room went very quiet. Felicity’s expression softened into something achingly gentle. I’m sorry about your mommy, Sadie. That must be very hard.
It is, Sadie said matterofactly. But daddy takes good care of me. He makes funny voices when he reads bedtime stories. Felicity glanced at Reed, who was trying very hard not to cry. I bet he does. “Can I color at the table?” Sadi asked, already eyeing the small conference table near the window. “Of course.
And if you get bored, I have some interesting things on my computer you might like to see.” 3 hours later, Reed looked up from answering emails to find Felicity showing Sadi basic coding principles on her tablet. His daughter was completely enthralled, asking questions faster than Felicity could answer them.
“If I tell the computer to make a cat jump,” Sadi was saying. “How does it know how high?” “Great question,” Felicity said with genuine enthusiasm. “You have to give it specific instructions. We call it an algorithm. You tell it exactly how many steps to jump, and the computer follows your directions. Can I try?” “Absolutely.” Reed watched them together.
his daughter and his boss, one teaching and one learning with equal excitement, and felt something shift in his chest, something warm and terrifying and hopeful. This was what Cassidy would have wanted for Sadi. Strong women to look up to, brilliant minds to inspire her, gentle guidance that encouraged her curiosity. And this was what Reed hadn’t let himself want since Cassidy died. connection, warmth, the possibility of something more than just survival.
When it was time to leave, Sadie hugged Felicity goodbye without prompting. Can I come back sometime? Felicity looked startled by the hug, but then her arms came up to return it carefully. I’d like that very much. After Reed buckled Sadie into the car, his daughter asked, “Daddy, is Miss Felicity lonely?” The question caught him completely off guard.
What makes you ask that? She smiles with her mouth, but not her eyes,” Sadie said with the observational skills of someone who’d learned to read emotions carefully after losing a parent. “Except when she was teaching me about coding. Then her eyes smiled, too.” Reed looked at his daughter, really looked at her, and marveled at her emotional intelligence. “I think maybe she has been lonely,” Ree said carefully. But maybe she’s starting to be less lonely now.
Because of us? Sadi asked hopefully. Maybe. Yeah, maybe because of us. Christmas came with unexpected gentleness. Felicity gave all her employees a week off, but Reed couldn’t afford to take Sadi anywhere special. He’d planned a quiet week at home. Movies, hot chocolate, making the most of their small apartment. On Christmas Eve, a delivery arrived.
Three enormous boxes wrapped in silver paper. The card read, “For Sadie, from someone who enjoyed teaching her about coding, and for Reed, because you deserve good things, too.” F. Inside were gifts that made Reed’s throat thud. A beginner’s coding kit for kids complete with tablet and programs.
A complete set of winter clothes for Satie in her exact size. A gift card to the grocery store for $500. And for Reed, a beautiful leatherbound journal with a note. Write down the good days. You’ve earned them. Reed called Felicity, his voice rough. This is too much. It’s not nearly enough, she said quietly. Merry Christmas, Reed.
Merry Christmas, Felicity. The treatments showed their first signs of progress in January. Reed was in the observation room during Felicity’s session when he saw it. The smallest twitch in her right foot. The physical therapist noticed too, his face lighting up with cautious excitement.
“Did you feel that?” he asked Felicity. “I I I think so,” she said, her voice shaking. “I think I felt something.” Reed was on his feet, his heart pounding. Over the next 3 weeks, the sensation grew stronger. Felicity could feel pressure on her right foot, then light touch on her left. The movements were tiny, barely there, but they were real.
One evening in late January, Reed stayed late to help Felicity with a presentation. They’d been working for hours, the office quiet, except for the sound of fingers on keyboards and the occasional comment about slide design. Reed, come here. He crossed to her desk, concerned by the strange note in her voice.
What’s wrong? Nothing’s wrong. I want to try something. She looked up at him, vulnerable and hopeful. Hold my hands. Reed took her hands carefully, feeling the familiar warmth of her skin against his. Okay, Felicity said, taking a deep breath. Don’t let go. And then, with visible effort and concentration, she shifted her weight and pushed with her legs.
For the first time in 2 years, Felicity Moore stood up. She wobbled immediately, her legs barely able to hold her weight, and Reed’s grip on her hands tightened to keep her steady. They were standing so close he could see the tears streaming down her face. Could feel her hands shaking in his. I’m standing, she whispered in disbelief. Reed, I’m standing.
You are, he said, his own voice breaking. Felicity, you’re amazing. She looked up at him, really looked at him, and something passed between them that had been building for months. Something neither of them could deny anymore. I couldn’t have done this without you, she said softly. Yes, you could have. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.
No, Felicity insisted, still holding his hands, still standing on shaking legs. You stayed. Everyone else left, but you stayed. You saw me on my worst days, and you came back. You made me believe I was worth the effort. Reed’s heart was pounding so hard he was sure she could hear it.
Felicity, I’m falling in love with you,” she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I know I shouldn’t. You work for me. You’ve been through so much. I’m your boss, and this is completely inappropriate, but I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this. You and Sadie, he’d become the best parts of my days, and I’m terrified. But I needed you to know.” Reed kissed her.
It was gentle, careful, a question as much as an answer. Felicity made a small sound of surprise, then kissed him back with her whole heart. And when they finally broke apart, she was crying and smiling and still standing. “I’m falling in love with you, too,” Reed admitted, his forehead resting against hers. “I’ve been trying not to, but Felicity, you’re incredible.
You’re brilliant and stubborn, and you make me want to be better. You make Sadi light up when she talks about you. You’ve given us so much more than a job. What do we do now? Felicity whispered. I don’t know, Reed said honestly. But we’ll figure it out together. Her legs gave out then, unable to hold her any longer. And Reed caught her carefully, helping her back into her wheelchair.
But she was laughing through her tears, giddy with the dual triumph of standing and confessing feelings she’d been terrified to acknowledge. “I stood,” she said again, wonder in her voice. You did, Reed agreed, kneeling beside her chair so they were eye level. And you’ll stand again. You’ll walk again. I believe that. I believe it, too, she said, reaching up to touch his face.
Because I’m not alone anymore. Neither am I, Reed said, covering her hand with his. The next 3 months were a careful navigation of new territory. Reed and Felicity kept their relationship private at first, both nervous about the implications of an employer employee romance.
But Sadie knew immediately when Reed brought her to the office the following week. Daddy smiled at Miss Felicity the way he used to smile at mommy. Does that mean you’re going to get married? Reed nearly choked on his coffee. Sadie. But Felicity just laughed. A real full laugh that lit up her entire face. Maybe someday, sweetheart. We’ll see. Sadie seemed satisfied with that answer. The physical therapy continued with remarkable progress.
By March, Felicity could stand for 5 minutes at a time with support. By April, she was taking her first assisted steps with parallel bars and braces. Reed was there for every milestone, watching with pride and love as the woman he’d fallen for reclaimed pieces of herself she thought were lost forever. “I want you to move in,” Felicity said one evening.
They were in her brownstone’s living room, Reed sitting on the couch while Felicity practiced standing exercises nearby. It was the kind of domestic scene he’d thought he’d never have again. “Move in,” Reed repeated, startled. “You and Sadie, there’s more than enough space. The whole third floor is empty. And I,” she paused, vulnerable, in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. “I don’t want to spend my evenings alone anymore.
I want to come home to you, both of you.” Reed thought about his cramped two-bedroom apartment with its thin walls and broken heater. Then he thought about Sadi having a real bedroom, space to play, stability beyond anything he could provide alone. But most of all, he thought about waking up in a home filled with laughter and love and possibility.
Yes, he said simply, “We’d love to.” Felicity’s smile could have lit up the entire city. They moved in on a Saturday in June, and that night Reed made dinner while Sadie showed Felicity her new bedroom with its window seat and bookshelves and more space than she’d ever had before.
“Daddy,” Sadie called down the stairs, “Can Miss Felicity read me bedtime stories now that we live here?” Reed looked at Felicity, who looked back at him with cautious hope. If Miss Felicity wants to, Reed said, “I’d love to,” Felicity said softly. Later, after Sadi was asleep and they sat together on the couch with glasses of wine and the comfortable silence of people who fit together, Felicity said, “Tell me what you’re thinking.
” Reed looked at her, really looked at her. at the woman who’d given him a chance when he had nothing, who’d become his best friend, his partner, someone he couldn’t imagine his life without. I’m thinking about how 2 years ago I was sitting in a cramped apartment with 17 rejection emails trying to figure out how to feed my daughter, and now I’m here with you in a home that feels like a sanctuary.
I’m thinking about how grateful I am that I sent that 18th application that you took a chance on a desperate single dad who was honest about his brokenness. You were never broken, Felicity insisted. You were healing. There’s a difference. Reed smiled at the echo of his own words from months ago. We both were. We both are. Felicity corrected, reaching for his hand. And we’ll keep healing together.
together. Reed agreed, bringing her hand to his lips. Eight months later, on a February morning that felt like a gift, Reed stood in Felicity’s office, their office now, watching her take her first unassisted steps. She’d been working toward this moment for over a year through pain and frustration and countless setbacks. Her legs were still weak.
She needed breaks frequently, and she’d probably use her wheelchair for the rest of her life on difficult days. But she was walking 20 steps across the office from her wheelchair to where Reed stood waiting with his arms outstretched. When she reached him, wobbling but triumphant, he caught her in a tight embrace. “I did it,” she said, laughing and crying simultaneously.
“Reed, I actually did it.” “I never doubted you,” he said, meaning it with every fiber of his being. “Liar,” she said affectionately. You doubted me plenty, but you stayed anyway. I stayed because I love you, Reed said simply. And because you’re worth staying for. So are you, Felicity said, pulling back to look at him seriously.
You know that, right? You’re worth staying for, too. Reed felt something release in his chest. Some final piece of grief or guilt or unworthiness he’d been carrying since Cassidy died. I’m starting to believe that, he admitted. Good. Felicity kissed him softly. Because I’m planning to spend a very long time proving it to you.
That evening, the three of them sat down for dinner together. Reed, Felicity, and Sadi. It was their new ritual, the one that grounded them after long days of work and school and therapy. Miss Fel, are you going to be my new mommy? The room went very quiet. Reed looked at Felicity, who looked back at him with wide eyes in an expression that asked a silent question. “Would you like that, sweetheart?” Reed asked gently.
“Yes,” Sadie said immediately. “I think mommy would like Miss Felicity. She’s smart and nice, and she teaches me about computers, and she makes you smile, Daddy.” Reed’s throat tightened with emotion. Felicity reached across the table to take Satie’s hand.
If your daddy and I decide to get married someday, I would be so honored to be your stepmother, Sadi. But I want you to know that nobody will ever replace your first mommy. She’ll always be special. I know, Sadi said seriously. But I have room in my heart for two mommies. Hearts are like that, Daddy says. They get bigger when you love more people. Reed had to look away, blinking rapidly.
Your daddy is very wise,” Felicity said, her voice thick with emotion. Later that night, after Sadie was asleep, Reed and Felicity stood together on the brownstone’s back terrace, looking out at the glittering lights of the city. “Did you mean what you said?” Reed asked quietly. “About getting married someday.” “I did,” Felicity said. “If that’s something you’d want.
” “It is,” admitted Reed. “Not right now. We’re still figuring things out, but someday. Yes. Absolutely. Yes. Felicity leaned against him, and Reed wrapped his arms around her, marveling at how perfectly they fit together. “Look at us,” Felicity echoed, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. “Two broken people who found each other and somehow built something beautiful.
” “Not broken,” Reed corrected gently. “Healing. Healing,” she agreed with a smile. together. And as they stood there wrapped in each other’s arms, with the city lights sparkling around them and the promise of tomorrow stretching out ahead, Reed thought about that desperate man who’d walked into an interview 18 months ago with nothing but honesty and hope.
He thought about the impossible boss who’d seen past his desperation to the person underneath. He thought about his daughter asleep upstairs, safe and happy and loved by more people than he dared to dream. And he thought about Cassidy, hoping that somewhere somehow she knew he’d found his way back to living instead of just surviving. Because sometimes when you lose everything, you discover that rebuilding is just another word for finding something new to hold on to.
Sometimes the most broken people find each other and create something whole. Friends, if this story touched your heart the way it touched mine, if it reminded you of the power we all have to change someone’s life with a simple act of kindness, please don’t just watch and walk away. Hit that subscribe button and join our Everbell Stories
Some fans suggested Richard Osman could step in (Image: BBC)
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