When a millionaire CEO’s deaf son breaks down at 30,000 ft, unable to communicate his desperate need, every passenger turns away from the piercing cries that echo through the cabin. Every passenger except one, a 7-year-old girl who sees what no one else can see, who hears what others dismiss as noise, and who possesses a language that will bridge two broken worlds in ways no one could have predicted.
This is the story of how a single act of courage on a November morning changed four lives forever, proving that sometimes the most profound connections happen in the space between silence and sound. Before we continue, please tell us where in the world are you tuning in from. We love seeing how far our stories travel. The crying pierced through the airplane cabin like a siren, raw and unrelenting.
Not the typical fussy toddler cry that passengers grudgingly tolerate on flights, but something different. Something that made heads turn with a mixture of concern and irritation. Row 19, economy class. Damen Trent’s eyes snapped open from his halfsleep state. His body instantly alert.
Years of working as a pediatric occupational therapist had trained his ears to recognize certain sounds, certain patterns. This wasn’t a tantrum. This was distress. real desperate distress. Before his tired brain could fully process what was happening, he felt movement beside him. “Wait, Lynn!” But his seven-year-old daughter was already unbuckling her seat belt with the determined efficiency of a child on a mission. Her small frame slipped past him before he could grab her arm.
“Adeline,” he called out louder this time, using her full name the way he did when she was about to do something that would get them both in trouble. She didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. She was already moving up the aisle, her purple sneakers patting softly against the carpeted floor, weaving between flight attendants and passengers with practiced ease.
Damen’s heart hammered against his rib cage as he scrambled out of his seat, muttering apologies to the passengers he had to climb over. A flight attendant stepped into the aisle, her professional smile firmly in place. But Adeline had already slipped past her like water through fingers.
By the time Damen reached first class, first class where he definitely did not belong, in his worn khakis and wrinkled button-down, Adeline was already kneeling in the aisle beside a young boy. The crying had stopped. Not gradually, not with the slow winding down of a child being comforted. It had simply stopped, replaced by an eerie silence that felt almost louder than the screaming had been.
Damen froze in the entrance to first class, his prepared apology dying on his lips. His daughter’s hands were moving, flowing through the air with graceful precision, forming shapes and signs that the little boy was watching with wide, tear stained eyes. The child’s own hands began to move, hesitant at first, then faster, more urgent.
A woman sat in the seat beside the boy, and Damen’s first thought was that she looked like she belonged in a magazine. Sharp cheekbones, blonde hair pulled into a ponytail, a suit that probably cost more than Damian’s monthly rent. But her face told a different story.
Her makeup couldn’t hide the exhaustion carved into the lines around her eyes, or the way her hands trembled slightly as they gripped the armrests. She was staring at Adeline with an expression Damen had seen before in his work. The look of a parent who’d been drowning and suddenly felt air in their lungs. I’m so sorry. Damian started moving forward to collect his daughter. She shouldn’t have. The woman held up one hand, stopping him mid-sentence.
Her eyes never left Adeline’s moving hands. Is she Is she signing to him? The woman’s voice was carefully controlled, but Damen could hear the crack underneath. Is she understanding what he’s saying? Damen nodded as Adeline’s hands moved through another series of signs. The boy responded, his movements becoming calmer, more deliberate.
Then Adeline turned to look at her father. Daddy, he needs his blue blanket. His grandmother made it for him. It’s in the silver case up there. He says it smells like her and he can’t fly without it. He’s scared because he can’t find it. The woman’s composure shattered like glass.

Her hand flew to her mouth and for a moment, Damen thought she might break down completely. Instead, she stood up so fast she nearly hit her head on the overhead bin, her hands shaking as she reached for the latch. His grandmother’s blanket. Of course. Of course. That’s what he needs. Why didn’t I I I couldn’t understand him. I couldn’t understand my own son.
Damian stepped forward, his height giving him the advantage in reaching the silver carry-on case. He pulled it down carefully, and the woman’s hands were already unzipping it before he could set it on the seat. She pulled out a hand knitted blanket in blue, woven together in an intricate pattern that spoke of hours of love and patience. The boy’s face transformed the moment he saw it.
His hands reached out, grabbing the blanket and pulling it to his chest, burying his face in its soft folds. The change was immediate and profound. His entire body relaxed, his breathing evening out as he clutched the blanket like a lifeline. Adeline’s hands moved again, gentle and patient, and the boy responded, his sign slower now, calmer.
Damen watched his daughter ask about the blanket, about the patterns knitted into it, about the grandmother who had made it. The boy’s face shifted from distress to something that looked like wonder. The wonder of finding someone who understood his language perfectly, who saw him not as the crying child disrupting the flight, but as a person with something important to say.
The woman sank back into her seat, her eyes fixed on her son. “Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engines. Then louder, “Thank you. I should have I should have understood him. I’ve been learning sign language for 2 years, but when he gets upset like this, when everything becomes too much, I just She closed her eyes. I fail him.
Damian felt something shift in his chest. He’d heard this before, this particular flavor of guilt. He’d felt it himself. It’s not failure, he said gently, crouching down so he was at eye level with her. It’s hard. Adeline’s been signing for four years now. She had to learn for different reasons.
But even she has days where communication breaks down. You’re not failing him. You’re here. You’re trying. That’s what matters. The woman opened her eyes and Damian saw something in them that made him look away. Vulnerability. raw and unguarded in a way that felt too intimate for a stranger on an airplane.
A flight attendant appeared beside them, her professional mask back in place, but her eyes kind. Perhaps the children would be more comfortable if the young lady stayed up here for a bit. We have an empty seat across the aisle, sir, if you’d like to sit there, just while they connect. It was phrased as a suggestion, but Damian understood it was also the flight attendant’s way of managing the situation.
He glanced at Adeline, who was already showing the boy a new sign, her face lit up with the particular joy she got when teaching someone something new. “If that’s okay with you,” Damen said to the woman. “Please,” she said immediately. “Please, if she doesn’t mind, Nolan hasn’t been this calm since she stopped swallowing hard. since his grandmother died 6 weeks ago.
The weight of that sentence hung in the air between them. Damian settled into the seat across the aisle, and for the next 3 hours he watched his daughter work magic he’d seen before, but never quite like this. Adeline and Nolan, he learned the boy’s name from overhearing the woman use it, played games with their hands, their fingers forming stories and jokes and questions.
Adeline taught him new signs, and he taught her some back. Their silent conversation more animated than most spoken ones. The woman sat beside her son, watching everything with an intensity that spoke of memorization. Damen noticed her hands moving slightly, mimicking signs, trying to learn from Adeline’s patient teaching.
Somewhere over Nevada, Damen caught her eye. She gave him a small smile, sad, but genuine. I’m Kendall. Kendall Moore. Damian Trent. And that’s Adelyn. She’s remarkable. I felt the familiar swell of pride mixed with something more complicated. She is. She’s teaching me new things every day.
Kendall nodded, her eyes drifting back to the children. Nolan is my whole world, but sometimes I wonder if I’m equipped to be the parent he needs. I think every parent wonders that,” Damian said softly. “Hearing kids, deaf kids, somewhere in between. We all wonder if we’re enough.” “Are you traveling for Thanksgiving?” Kendall asked. And Damen recognized it for what it was.
A lifeline thrown to safer conversational waters. “Visiting my sister in San Francisco. She’s been begging to see Adeline. It’s been a year since our last visit. We’re going home. I had business meetings in Chicago. I usually don’t bring Nolan on business trips, but after my mother, she stopped redirected. I couldn’t leave him. Not right now.
The grief in her voice was fresh, still bleeding. As the plane began its descent into San Francisco, Adeline showed Nolan how to pop his ears safely, something the boy had clearly struggled with before based on his nervous anticipation. When the wheels touched down, Nolan looked at Adeline with an expression of pure gratitude, his hands moving in what Damen recognized as, “Thank you,” repeated three times.
The flight attendants were busy preparing for arrival, and Damian knew they needed to return to their seats. Adeline gave Nolan one final sign, something that made him smile before reluctantly standing up. As they gathered their things, Kendall reached out, her hand briefly touching Damen’s arm. Could I Could I get your contact information? The question came out rushed, as if she’d been building courage to ask it.
I’d like to thank you and your daughter properly. Maybe lunch if you’re free during your stay in San Francisco. Nolan would love to see Adeline again. And I She paused. I’d like to talk more about communication strategies, about a lot of things. Damian hesitated. Something about this felt significant in a way he couldn’t quite name.
But Adeline was already signing excitedly about seeing her new friend again, her hands moving so fast Damian had to ask her to slow down. He pulled out one of his business cards from the children’s hospital, writing his cell number on the back. “Sure,” he said, handing it to Kendall. Her fingers closed around the card like it was something precious. 3 days later, Damen’s phone rang while he and Adeline were walking through Golden Gate Park with his sister.
The number was unfamiliar, but he answered anyway. “Mr. Trent, this is Kendall Moore from the flight.” He remembered her voice immediately, that careful control overlaying something more vulnerable. “I was wondering if you and Adeline would be available for lunch tomorrow,” she continued. And Damen could hear the hope threaded through her professional tone. Nolan hasn’t stopped talking about Adeline.
Well, signing about her. It would mean a lot to him, to us. Damian glanced at Adeline, who was feeding ducks at the pond with his sister. She looked so happy, so unbburdened. Since her mother had died 4 years ago, a sudden brain aneurysm during a morning jog that had torn their world apart, Damen had made it his mission to preserve every moment of her happiness. The memory hit him without warning, the way it sometimes still did.
Coming home from his morning shift at the hospital to find the police cars in the driveway. The neighbor who’d found Jennifer collapsed on the sidewalk three blocks from home. The way that Adeline had stopped speaking entirely, her voice swallowed by grief too big for a three-year-old to process. 6 months of silence.

6 months where the only way Damian could reach his daughter was through signs. Through the language they’d built together in the quiet spaces where words had failed them. Even after her voice returned, tentative and small, they’d kept their sign language as their special bond, their private way of speaking when the world got too loud.
“Tomorrow works,” Damen said, pulling himself back to the present. “What time and where?” “The restaurant Kendall suggested was elegant but familyfriendly in downtown San Francisco. the kind of place with cloth napkins and a kids menu printed on thick card stock. Damen felt underdressed in his khakis and button-down.
But Adeline had insisted on wearing her favorite dress, the one she saved for special occasions, and her confidence bolstered his own. Kendall looked different off the plane. Still polished, that seemed to be her natural state, but softer somehow. She wore dark jeans and a sweater that made her look less like a CEO and more like someone’s mom.
Nolan’s face lit up the moment he saw Adeline, his hands flying in excited greeting. The children fell into easy conversation immediately, their hands dancing through signs while Damian and Kendall settled into chairs across from each other. “I realized I was quite a mess on the plane,” she continued with a self-deprecating smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’m not usually so uh unraveled. You were a mother whose child was in distress. That’s not being unraveled. That’s being human. Something in her expression shifted, softened. Nolan’s grandmother, my mother, passed away 6 weeks ago. Kidney failure. It was sudden. She was the one who truly understood him, who could calm him when I couldn’t.
She taught me to sign, pushed me to learn, but she was always better at it than me, more patient, more intuitive. Kendall’s voice caught. I’m still learning how to do this alone. Over pasta for the kids and salad for the adults, the story emerged gradually, piece by piece. Kendall was the CEO of a sustainable energy company she’d built from nothing into a multi-million dollar enterprise.
Her husband, ex-husband, had left when Nolan was 2 years old, unable to handle having a deaf child. He said it was too hard, Kendall said, her voice carefully neutral in the way that suggested old wounds. said he didn’t sign up for this kind of life as if Nolan was a burden instead of a blessing. She watched her son signing animatedly with Adeline about dolphins.
So, it’s been just us, me and Nolan and my mother until she didn’t need to finish the sentence. Damian found himself sharing his own story, the words coming easier than he’d expected. Jennifer’s death, Adeline’s months of silence, how sign language had become their bridge back to each other, how it had saved them both when everything else was falling apart. I work at a children’s hospital, pediatric occupational therapy.
I helped kids find ways to communicate, to connect with the world around them. After Jennifer died and Adeline stopped speaking, I used everything I’d ever learned professionally to reach my daughter personally. Sign language wasn’t just about communication for us. It was about survival.
Kendall set down her fork, her full attention on Damian. “I can buy Nolan anything,” she said quietly, her eyes on the children. “The best therapist, the latest technology, education at schools most people can’t even imagine. But I can’t buy him what Adeline just gave him.
A friend who sees him completely normal, who doesn’t see his deafness first and him second, who just sees Nolan. “You sound like a mother who loves her son,” Damian replied. “Money doesn’t make that any easier or harder. We’re all just doing our best with what we have. But you’ve given us something priceless,” Kendall insisted. “And there was an edge of frustration in her voice now. And I don’t know how to
repay that. I don’t know how to.” She stopped, seeming to hear herself and laughed shakily. “I’m sorry. I must sound so out of touch, so CEO. You sound like someone who cares,” Damian said gently. “That’s not out of touch. That’s exactly the right touch.” Their lunch extended to 3 hours. The children were devastated when it finally had to end, so Kendall suggested meeting again in 2 days at Golden Gate Park.
Damian agreed, watching Adeline’s face light up with excitement. The park meeting led to another invitation to the children’s museum before Damen and Adeline had to fly home. As they stood in the airport preparing to say goodbye, Nolan clung to Adeline’s hand, his face crumpling with the sadness of parting.
“This is going to sound crazy,” Kendall said suddenly, the words tumbling out fast. “But would you consider staying in touch? Leo needs this. needs Adeline. They’re good for each other. And maybe she hesitated. Maybe we could figure out some way to meet regularly. Damian thought about the logistics, the distance, the complications.
But then he looked at his daughter, who was showing Nolan one more sign, promising with her hands that they’d see each other again soon. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s figure it out.” What started as a promise became a pattern. Monthly weekend visits that quickly evolved into twice monthly trips.
Then every weekend Kendall would arrange flights for Damian and Adeline to come to San Francisco or she and Nolan would fly to Chicago. The expense was nothing to her, she insisted compared to seeing Nolan thrive. Damen watched his daughter bloom in her role as Nolan’s best friend and interpreter. She’d always been apathetic, even before her own trauma had taught her about pain. But this was different.
This was purpose. Adeline taught Nolan signs he didn’t know. Helped him navigate interactions with hearing kids. Showed him that being deaf didn’t mean being limited. And Nolan in turn showed Adeline the beauty of deaf culture, the rich community she’d only touched the ages of before. But something else was growing too.
Something Damian tried not to examine too closely because it felt both inevitable and impossible. He found himself looking forward to the adult conversation as much as Adeline looked forward to seeing Nolan. Kendall was brilliant in ways that intimidated him at first. She could discuss renewable energy policy and stock market trends with the same ease that she discussed Nolan’s latest developmental milestones.
But she also made him laugh with stories from her corporate world that seemed like science fiction compared to his hospital environment. She asked his advice about Nolan constantly, valued his professional expertise, but never made him feel like a consultant.
She wanted to know his opinion on everything from discipline strategies to whether Nolan should attend a mainstream school or a deaf school. She listened when he talked about his work, asked intelligent questions about occupational therapy techniques, remembered details from conversations they’d had weeks before. And in the quiet moments, when the kids were playing and the adults were simply existing in the same space, Damen would catch Kendall watching him with an expression he was afraid to interpret.
6 months after that first flight, his phone rang late one evening. Adeline was already asleep, and Damen was reviewing patient files at his kitchen table when he saw Kendall’s name on the screen. I’m restructuring my company, she said without preamble, her voice tight with something that sounded like nervousness. Moving our secondary headquarters to Chicago.
It would mean Nolan and I would be there at least 2 weeks every month, maybe more. Damen’s heart forgot how to beat properly. That’s That’s a big change. A huge change. Nolan needs Adeline, Kendall said quickly. They’re teaching each other so much.
Adeline’s helping him connect with the hearing world in ways my money and therapy never could. And he’s showing her the beauty of death culture, the pride in it. They’re good together. They are, Damen agreed, his mouth dry. But it’s not just that. Kendall’s voice dropped lower. Damian, I think I’m falling for you. I know that’s probably inappropriate given everything you and Adeline have done for us.
I know the power dynamics are complicated and maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, but I can’t keep pretending that I’m just interested in our children’s friendship. I look forward to seeing you. I think about you when you’re not around. And I think I hope that maybe you feel something similar. But if I’m wrong, please just tell me and we can Kendall.
Damen interrupted gently, his heart now beating so hard he could hear it in his ears. Really? Her voice was small, vulnerable in a way he’d never heard from her. Really? I’ve been trying to figure out how to say the same thing for the last 2 months. The silence on the other end of the line was profound.
Really? Her voice was small, vulnerable in a way he’d never heard from her. Really? I kept telling myself I was imagining it, that someone like you wouldn’t be interested in someone like me, that the universe doesn’t work that way. Someone like me? Kendall laughed, but it was shaky.

Damian, you’re the first person in years who’s made me feel like I’m more than a CEO or a single mother or a walking bank account. You see me, actually see me. Do you know how rare that is? They talked until 2:00 in the morning. the conversation flowing from feelings to fears to the future they might build together. It felt terrifying and right in equal measure. By the following autumn, one year after that chaotic flight, where their worlds had collided at 30,000 ft, they were a family.
Not officially, not yet, but in all the ways that mattered. Kendall had bought a house in Chicago’s northern suburbs, a beautiful colonial with enough bedrooms for everyone and a backyard where the kids could play. She kept her San Francisco place for business trips. But Chicago was home now, their home.
The four of them had created something beautiful in that house. A space where both spoken and signed languages flowed freely. Where Adelyn’s voice and Nolan’s silence were equally valued. Where differences were celebrated instead of merely tolerated. Damian had worried about the financial differences between them.
His salary as a pediatric occupational therapist was comfortable, but nowhere near Kendall’s wealth. He’d worried about feeling inadequate, about being seen as someone who’d latched on to her money, about losing himself in the shadow of her success. Kendall had addressed it head-on one evening as they sat on the back porch watching the kids chase fireflies.
“You gave me my son back,” she had said simply, her hand finding his in the darkness. You and Adeline showed me how to be a complete family. You taught me that understanding matters more than control. That patience matters more than perfection. There’s no price tag for that. There’s no amount of money I could offer that would equal what you’ve given us.
But no buts, she had interrupted firmly. I have money. You have emotional intelligence and parenting wisdom that I desperately need. We both bring something essential to this. It’s not about equal finances. It’s about equal partnership. Can you accept that? He’d kissed her instead of answering with words. And that had been answer enough.
Their love story unfolded slowly, built on the foundation of respect and shared values and the recognition that they each completed something in the other. Kendall brought security and resources, yes, but also ambition and a different perspective on the world that challenged Damian to think bigger. Damian brought grounding presence, emotional availability, and a therapeutic wisdom that helped Kendall finally forgive herself for not being the perfect mother to Nolan. One evening, as they watched Adeline and Nolan signing an elaborate story they’d
created together. Something about dolphins who could fly and astronauts who spoke underwater, Kendall leaned against Damen’s shoulder with a contented sigh. “My mother would have loved you,” she said softly. “She always told me I needed someone who could see past the CEO to the mother underneath.
Someone who understood that my greatest achievement wasn’t my company, but raising Nolan to be proud of who he is. My wife would have loved seeing Adeline like this, Damen replied, his voice thick with emotion. Using her voice, signed and spoken, to change someone’s world. Jennifer always said Adeline had a healer’s heart. I think she was right.
It was the first time they’d spoken about their lost loves without pain overshadowing the memory. The grief was still there, would always be there, but it had softened into something they could hold without bleeding. Two years after that first flight, two years after a little girl had refused to stay in her seat when another child was crying, Damen and Kendall married in a small ceremony at the Chicago Botanic Garden. Adeline and Nolan served as ringbearers.
Both of them dressed in matching outfits they had picked out together. Before their parents exchanged vows, the children stood before the gathered friends and family and signed their own promises to each other. promises of siblinghood, of friendship, of always being there to interpret when the world got too confusing. There wasn’t a dry eye in the audience. Kendall had established a foundation for deaf children shortly after they’d gotten engaged with Damian as the director. It combined her business expertise and resources with his therapeutic knowledge and compassion.
They were already helping hundreds of families navigate the challenges and joys of raising deaf children, providing resources that many couldn’t otherwise afford, training interpreters, and advocating for better inclusion policies in schools.
The foundation was named after both their mothers, Jennifer Moore Memorial Foundation for Deaf Children, honoring the women who had shaped them into the parents they’d become. On their wedding night, after the guests had gone home and the kids were asleep at his sister’s house, Damen and Kendall sat on the balcony of their hotel room overlooking Lake Michigan.
“Do you ever think about how different our lives would be if Adeline had stayed in her seat that day?” Kendall asked, her head resting on his shoulder. “Every single day,” Damen admitted. “But I think about it less as chance and more as I don’t know, recognition. Adeline recognized something in Nolan’s cry that I was too tired to fully process.
She recognized a child who needed the one thing she could give him. A voice,” Kendall said softly. “More than that, connection, understanding, the knowledge that he wasn’t alone.” “None of us are alone anymore,” Kendall said, turning to face him. “That’s what you and Adeline gave us. That’s what you keep giving us every single day.
” Damian kissed his wife, his wife, and marveled at how a 5-hour flight had somehow delivered him to this moment, to this woman, to this family they’d built from fragments of grief and loss and unexpected grace. Their story became a testament to the truth that love doesn’t always arrive when or how you expect it.
Sometimes it comes in the form of a 7-year-old girl who won’t sit still when another child is crying, who trusts her instincts over conventional rules, who believes that connection is more important than staying put. Sometimes it comes in the courage to reach across the airplane aisle.
Between economy and first class, between two worlds that aren’t supposed to touch, between a single father working two jobs to make ends meet, and a CEO who could buy anything except what mattered most. Sometimes it comes in the space between silence and sound, where two families learned that the most important things in life need no words at all.
Damian and Kendall’s merger wasn’t just of two hearts, but of two worlds. A world where a millionaire CEO learned that the greatest wealth is understanding. Where success is measured not in dollars, but in the smile on your child’s face when they find someone who speaks their language.
And a world where a single father discovered that love can speak in any language through any medium as long as you’re brave enough to listen. 5 years after that November flight, the foundation had helped over 2,000 families. Adeline was 12 now, fluent in three forms of sign language and already talking about becoming a deaf education teacher. Nolan was 11, confident and happy, attending a mainstream school where he thrived with the support systems Kendall and Damian had fought to put in place. The family had grown, too.
Kendall and Damian had a son together, little Marcus, who was learning sign language before he could speak, growing up in a household where communication came in many forms, and all were equally valued. On quiet evenings, when the chaos of three children finally settled into sleep, Damian and Kendall would sometimes pull up the security footage from that flight, a recording a passenger had taken and sent to Kendall weeks after they’d met, a gift she’d had professionally transferred to a thumb drive. They’d watch Adeline unbuckle her seat belt and march up that aisle with
purpose. They’d watch the moment her hands started moving. The moment Nolan’s crying stopped, the moment two children found each other across the divide of sound and silence. And they’d remember that love is sometimes loud and sometimes quiet, sometimes spoken and sometimes signed, but always always worth the courage it takes to reach across the aisle and say in whatever language you know, “I see you.
I hear you. You’re not alone.” The greatest miracles don’t announce themselves with trumpets and fanfare. They whisper in the flutter of small hands forming signs in airplane aisles. They arrive in the tears of a mother who finally feels understood.
They live in the laughter of children who found friends who speak their language, whatever that language might be. Damian and Kendall’s story proved that sometimes the universe puts you exactly where you need to be, even when you’re exhausted in seat 19 of a crowded flight. Even when you’re desperate in first class with a crying child you can’t quite reach.
Sometimes all it takes is one person. One small determined 7-year-old person who refuses to look away when someone needs help. And sometimes, just sometimes, that single act of compassion becomes the first word in a love story that will last a lifetime. If this story reminded you that kindness is a language everyone can speak, that understanding matters more than words, and that love finds a way even in the most unexpected places, then please share this video. Share it with someone who needs to hear that second chances exist. That broken
families can become whole in new ways. That children see what adults miss when we’re too tired or too scared or too comfortable to step outside our assigned seats. Subscribe to Everbell stories for more tales that prove the world is still full of magic, still full of people brave enough to reach across divides.
still full of children who teach us how to be better humans because we’re all both at different times. We’re all Adeline and Nolan, Damian and Kendall. We’re all just trying to find our way home, hoping someone will speak our language, praying that love is still possible even after loss. Thank you for watching. Thank you for believing in stories that matter. Thank you for being here.
Until next time, remember the most beautiful connections happen when we’re brave enough to unbuckle our seat belts and walk toward the crying instead of away from it. This is Everbell Stories, reminding you that your story matters,