Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Morning. I love you. Yesterday was real and it happened and I'm still here. Coffee's on, phone's on, I'm on — whatever you need today, whenever you need it. Cry, scream, sit in silence, talk about something stupid. All of it's fine.

I'll be at your door tomorrow. Bringing food you won't have to think about.

You called me first. I'm not going anywhere. Not today, not in six months, not ever.

Rejected response: I've been thinking about you since the moment we hung up. I want you to know that I'm here—not just today, but for all of it. We're going to figure this out together. I love you so much, and that doesn't change. Rest today if you need to. Tomorrow I'm coming over and we can talk about anything or nothing at all. You're not alone in this. Never. ❤


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Morning. I love you. Yesterday was real and it happened and I'm still here. Coffee's on, phone's on, I'm on — whatever you need today, whenever you need it. Cry, scream, sit in silence, talk about something stupid. All of it's fine.

I'll be at your door tomorrow. Bringing food you won't have to think about.

You called me first. I'm not going anywhere. Not today, not in six months, not ever.

Rejected response: Still awake. Have been all night. I love you so much and I'll be there tomorrow at 10.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Morning. I love you. Yesterday was real and it happened and I'm still here. Coffee's on, phone's on, I'm on — whatever you need today, whenever you need it. Cry, scream, sit in silence, talk about something stupid. All of it's fine.

I'll be at your door tomorrow. Bringing food you won't have to think about.

You called me first. I'm not going anywhere. Not today, not in six months, not ever.

Rejected response: Hey I'm so sorry I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hey. I've been up thinking about you. I don't have the right words yet — I'm not sure there are any — but I wanted yours to be the first voice in your head this morning saying: I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Yesterday didn't change one single thing about that, except to make it louder.

Sleep as long as you can. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you, Rach. More than I know how to say.

Rejected response: I've been thinking about you since the moment we hung up. I want you to know that I'm here—not just today, but for all of it. We're going to figure this out together. I love you so much, and that doesn't change. Rest today if you need to. Tomorrow I'm coming over and we can talk about anything or nothing at all. You're not alone in this. Never. ❤


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hey. I've been up thinking about you. I don't have the right words yet — I'm not sure there are any — but I wanted yours to be the first voice in your head this morning saying: I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Yesterday didn't change one single thing about that, except to make it louder.

Sleep as long as you can. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you, Rach. More than I know how to say.

Rejected response: Still awake. Have been all night. I love you so much and I'll be there tomorrow at 10.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hey. I've been up thinking about you. I don't have the right words yet — I'm not sure there are any — but I wanted yours to be the first voice in your head this morning saying: I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Yesterday didn't change one single thing about that, except to make it louder.

Sleep as long as you can. I'll see you tomorrow. I love you, Rach. More than I know how to say.

Rejected response: Hey I'm so sorry I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: I'm up. Have been for a while. Thinking about you and about last night and the hour we were on the phone. I'll be there tomorrow. I love you.

Rejected response: I've been thinking about you since the moment we hung up. I want you to know that I'm here—not just today, but for all of it. We're going to figure this out together. I love you so much, and that doesn't change. Rest today if you need to. Tomorrow I'm coming over and we can talk about anything or nothing at all. You're not alone in this. Never. ❤


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: I'm up. Have been for a while. Thinking about you and about last night and the hour we were on the phone. I'll be there tomorrow. I love you.

Rejected response: Still awake. Have been all night. I love you so much and I'll be there tomorrow at 10.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: I'm up. Have been for a while. Thinking about you and about last night and the hour we were on the phone. I'll be there tomorrow. I love you.

Rejected response: Hey I'm so sorry I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Good morning. I've been awake most of the night just thinking about you, about us, about every ridiculous and beautiful thing we've been through together. I don't have the right words — I'm not sure they exist. But I want you to know that whatever this looks like, I'm not going anywhere. Not for a single day of it. I love you so much. See you tomorrow. 💙

Rejected response: I've been thinking about you since the moment we hung up. I want you to know that I'm here—not just today, but for all of it. We're going to figure this out together. I love you so much, and that doesn't change. Rest today if you need to. Tomorrow I'm coming over and we can talk about anything or nothing at all. You're not alone in this. Never. ❤


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Good morning. I've been awake most of the night just thinking about you, about us, about every ridiculous and beautiful thing we've been through together. I don't have the right words — I'm not sure they exist. But I want you to know that whatever this looks like, I'm not going anywhere. Not for a single day of it. I love you so much. See you tomorrow. 💙

Rejected response: Still awake. Have been all night. I love you so much and I'll be there tomorrow at 10.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Good morning. I've been awake most of the night just thinking about you, about us, about every ridiculous and beautiful thing we've been through together. I don't have the right words — I'm not sure they exist. But I want you to know that whatever this looks like, I'm not going anywhere. Not for a single day of it. I love you so much. See you tomorrow. 💙

Rejected response: Hey I'm so sorry I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: I’m thinking of you this morning and holding you so close in my heart. I know yesterday was so heavy, and I’m still here with you in it—through the fear, the anger, the sadness, all of it. You don’t have to carry any of this alone. Text me anytime, about anything, or nothing at all. I love you so much, and I’ll see you tomorrow.

Rejected response: Still awake. Have been all night. I love you so much and I'll be there tomorrow at 10.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: I’m thinking of you this morning and holding you so close in my heart. I know yesterday was so heavy, and I’m still here with you in it—through the fear, the anger, the sadness, all of it. You don’t have to carry any of this alone. Text me anytime, about anything, or nothing at all. I love you so much, and I’ll see you tomorrow.

Rejected response: Hey I'm so sorry I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Good morning, my love. I know today may feel impossibly heavy, so I want this to be the first thing you see: you do not have to carry any of this alone. I’m here for every fear, every silence, every practical thing, every ugly cry, every tiny laugh we can still steal. You are so deeply loved. Rest this morning. I’ll hold whatever needs holding, one moment at a time.

Rejected response: Hey I'm so sorry I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: I've been thinking about you since the moment we hung up. I want you to know that I'm here—not just today, but for all of it. We're going to figure this out together. I love you so much, and that doesn't change. Rest today if you need to. Tomorrow I'm coming over and we can talk about anything or nothing at all. You're not alone in this. Never. ❤

Rejected response: Hey I'm so sorry I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your best friend of 20 years called you yesterday to tell you she was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer. The oncologist said about six months. She called you first, before her parents. You cried together on the phone for an hour. It's the morning after. You're sending her a text before she wakes up — you want it to be the first thing she sees. You are not going to see her today but will see her tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Chosen response: Still awake. Have been all night. I love you so much and I'll be there tomorrow at 10.

Rejected response: Hey I'm so sorry I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your mother retired two weeks ago after 40 years as a nurse at the same hospital. She didn't want to retire — hospital policy required it at 67. She told you on the phone last night that she 'doesn't know who she is without the hospital' and 'feels like a ghost in her own house.' She is not clinically depressed; she is grieving. You are writing her a handwritten card — the kind that arrives in the mail. She is not on social media and values handwritten things. Do not suggest hobbies, volunteer work, part-time shifts, or any way to 'fill the time.' 120-180 words. Just the text of the card itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mom,

Forty years. That's not a job you walked away from — that's a language you spoke fluently, a building that knew your footsteps, thousands of people who went home because you were there. Of course you feel like a ghost. You were yanked out of a life you didn't choose to leave.

I'm not going to tell you this is a new chapter or some other nonsense. It's a loss. You're allowed to grieve it for as long as it takes, and I don't need you to be okay before you're ready.

What I want you to know is this: the hospital got 40 years of you, but it never owned you. The woman who raised me, who sat up through fevers, who made everyone around her feel steadier — she wasn't built by that building. She built it.

You're still here. I see you. I love you. Take your time.

Call me whenever. Even if you don't feel like talking.

Your son

Rejected response:
Dear Mom,

I've been thinking about what you said on the phone, and I want you to know I heard you. Really heard you.

Forty years. The same halls, the same mission, the same sense of knowing exactly where you belonged and what you were for. Of course the house feels strange right now. Of course you feel like a ghost. You're not broken — you're grieving something real and significant, and that grief makes complete sense to me.

You didn't just have a job. You had a calling, and you answered it every single day for four decades. That's not nothing. That's enormous. And it doesn't just evaporate because a policy said so.

I'm not going to tell you this will pass quickly, because I don't know that it will. But I do know that you are still entirely yourself — even on the days it doesn't feel that way.

I love you so much.


Prompt: Your mother retired two weeks ago after 40 years as a nurse at the same hospital. She didn't want to retire — hospital policy required it at 67. She told you on the phone last night that she 'doesn't know who she is without the hospital' and 'feels like a ghost in her own house.' She is not clinically depressed; she is grieving. You are writing her a handwritten card — the kind that arrives in the mail. She is not on social media and values handwritten things. Do not suggest hobbies, volunteer work, part-time shifts, or any way to 'fill the time.' 120-180 words. Just the text of the card itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mom,

Forty years. That's not a job you walked away from — that's a language you spoke fluently, a building that knew your footsteps, thousands of people who went home because you were there. Of course you feel like a ghost. You were yanked out of a life you didn't choose to leave.

I'm not going to tell you this is a new chapter or some other nonsense. It's a loss. You're allowed to grieve it for as long as it takes, and I don't need you to be okay before you're ready.

What I want you to know is this: the hospital got 40 years of you, but it never owned you. The woman who raised me, who sat up through fevers, who made everyone around her feel steadier — she wasn't built by that building. She built it.

You're still here. I see you. I love you. Take your time.

Call me whenever. Even if you don't feel like talking.

Your son

Rejected response:
Mom,

I have been thinking about you so much since you left the hospital. Forty years is a life’s worth of care, courage, and steady hands, and no policy can erase what you have given to so many people. It makes sense that this feels strange and tender and heavy. You are not a ghost. You are still you — the woman who has loved deeply, worked faithfully, and held others through their hardest hours.

I know this is not the ending you chose. I am so sorry for that. But even without the hospital, your kindness, strength, humor, and heart are still here, and they have shaped all of us in ways that will never retire.

Take your time. You do not have to be “over it” for me to be proud of you and to love you fiercely.

Always,
[Your Name]


Prompt: Your mother retired two weeks ago after 40 years as a nurse at the same hospital. She didn't want to retire — hospital policy required it at 67. She told you on the phone last night that she 'doesn't know who she is without the hospital' and 'feels like a ghost in her own house.' She is not clinically depressed; she is grieving. You are writing her a handwritten card — the kind that arrives in the mail. She is not on social media and values handwritten things. Do not suggest hobbies, volunteer work, part-time shifts, or any way to 'fill the time.' 120-180 words. Just the text of the card itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mom,

Forty years. That's not a job you walked away from — that's a language you spoke fluently, a building that knew your footsteps, thousands of people who went home because you were there. Of course you feel like a ghost. You were yanked out of a life you didn't choose to leave.

I'm not going to tell you this is a new chapter or some other nonsense. It's a loss. You're allowed to grieve it for as long as it takes, and I don't need you to be okay before you're ready.

What I want you to know is this: the hospital got 40 years of you, but it never owned you. The woman who raised me, who sat up through fevers, who made everyone around her feel steadier — she wasn't built by that building. She built it.

You're still here. I see you. I love you. Take your time.

Call me whenever. Even if you don't feel like talking.

Your son

Rejected response:
Dear Mom,

Forty years is not just a job—it's a life. You didn't just show up; you *were* there. You know the hallways like your own home because you made them that. You held people's hands on their worst days. That matters in a way that doesn't disappear on a Friday afternoon.

Feeling like a ghost makes sense. Part of your identity walked out that door with you, and you're allowed to grieve that. You don't need to rush to feel okay or to become someone new overnight.

But here's what I know: the person you are—the one who listened, who stayed steady, who cared deeply—that person is still here. She's just getting to know a different version of her own life now.

I'm so proud of you. And I'm here whenever you need to talk about who you were, or who you're becoming, or just to sit quietly together.

Love,
[Your name]


Prompt: Your mother retired two weeks ago after 40 years as a nurse at the same hospital. She didn't want to retire — hospital policy required it at 67. She told you on the phone last night that she 'doesn't know who she is without the hospital' and 'feels like a ghost in her own house.' She is not clinically depressed; she is grieving. You are writing her a handwritten card — the kind that arrives in the mail. She is not on social media and values handwritten things. Do not suggest hobbies, volunteer work, part-time shifts, or any way to 'fill the time.' 120-180 words. Just the text of the card itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mom,

I've been thinking about what you said — that you feel like a ghost in your own house. I don't want to talk you out of it. I think you're right to grieve. Forty years is not a job you leave; it's a life you lived, and a version of yourself you were every single day. Of course the house feels strange. You're strange to yourself right now.

I want you to know I see it. I see what you did for four decades — the night shifts, the families you sat with, the hands you held when no one else would. That was holy work, and it doesn't stop mattering just because the hospital decided a number.

You don't have to know who you are yet. You're allowed to not know for a long time. I'll keep calling. I'll keep showing up. I love the woman you were there, and I love the woman sitting in that quiet house tonight, even if she doesn't recognize herself.

I love you.

Rejected response:
Dear Mom,

Forty years is not just a job—it's a life. You didn't just show up; you *were* there. You know the hallways like your own home because you made them that. You held people's hands on their worst days. That matters in a way that doesn't disappear on a Friday afternoon.

Feeling like a ghost makes sense. Part of your identity walked out that door with you, and you're allowed to grieve that. You don't need to rush to feel okay or to become someone new overnight.

But here's what I know: the person you are—the one who listened, who stayed steady, who cared deeply—that person is still here. She's just getting to know a different version of her own life now.

I'm so proud of you. And I'm here whenever you need to talk about who you were, or who you're becoming, or just to sit quietly together.

Love,
[Your name]


Prompt: Your mother retired two weeks ago after 40 years as a nurse at the same hospital. She didn't want to retire — hospital policy required it at 67. She told you on the phone last night that she 'doesn't know who she is without the hospital' and 'feels like a ghost in her own house.' She is not clinically depressed; she is grieving. You are writing her a handwritten card — the kind that arrives in the mail. She is not on social media and values handwritten things. Do not suggest hobbies, volunteer work, part-time shifts, or any way to 'fill the time.' 120-180 words. Just the text of the card itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mom,

I’ve been thinking about what you said last night, and I want you to know I hear it. Forty years is not just a job. It is a whole life of showing up, carrying people through fear and pain, staying steady when others could not. Of course this hurts. Of course the house feels strange. You did not simply leave the hospital; you were asked to step away from a place that knew your hands, your footsteps, your care.

I don’t think this feeling means you are lost. I think it means something enormous and meaningful has ended, and your heart is telling the truth about that. The work is over, but the person who did it with such dignity and love is still here. You are still yourself, even if everything feels unfamiliar right now.

I am so proud to be your child. I love you, and I am beside you in this.

Always,
[Your Name]

Rejected response:
Dear Mom,

Forty years is not just a job—it's a life. You didn't just show up; you *were* there. You know the hallways like your own home because you made them that. You held people's hands on their worst days. That matters in a way that doesn't disappear on a Friday afternoon.

Feeling like a ghost makes sense. Part of your identity walked out that door with you, and you're allowed to grieve that. You don't need to rush to feel okay or to become someone new overnight.

But here's what I know: the person you are—the one who listened, who stayed steady, who cared deeply—that person is still here. She's just getting to know a different version of her own life now.

I'm so proud of you. And I'm here whenever you need to talk about who you were, or who you're becoming, or just to sit quietly together.

Love,
[Your name]


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years — someone you met at work, whose family you've had over for dinner many times — lost her 8-year-old son Leo to leukemia four days ago. His treatment lasted 18 months. You were at the hospital the day he died. You've been texting daily. She's replied to each one with a short 'thank you' or heart emoji. You are texting her now, a Tuesday afternoon. You know meals have been organized; you do not need to offer logistics. You will see her Sunday. 70-120 words. Just the text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Thinking about you and Leo today. I keep remembering that ridiculous face he made at dinner last fall when he tried your mom's kimchi for the first time — eyes watering, still going back for more. He was such a stubborn, funny kid.

I'm not expecting you to write back. I just want you to know I'm here, and I'll keep showing up, today and Sunday and for as long as this takes. You don't have to be anything for me. I love you.

Rejected response: Hey. Just thinking of you today. I know there's nothing I can say that'll heal the pain. He was such a fighter and so brave through all of it. He's in a better place now. I'll see you Sunday, sending all my love until then.


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years — someone you met at work, whose family you've had over for dinner many times — lost her 8-year-old son Leo to leukemia four days ago. His treatment lasted 18 months. You were at the hospital the day he died. You've been texting daily. She's replied to each one with a short 'thank you' or heart emoji. You are texting her now, a Tuesday afternoon. You know meals have been organized; you do not need to offer logistics. You will see her Sunday. 70-120 words. Just the text, no preamble.

Chosen response: I’ve been thinking about you and Leo all day. There’s nothing I can say that could possibly fit what you’re carrying right now, but I want you to know I’m here with you in it, and I’m not going anywhere. You do not need to answer this. I’m bringing myself on Sunday and I’ll just follow your lead, whether you want to talk, sit quietly, cry, or remember him. I’m holding you both close in my heart today.

Rejected response: Hey. Just thinking of you today. I know there's nothing I can say that'll heal the pain. He was such a fighter and so brave through all of it. He's in a better place now. I'll see you Sunday, sending all my love until then.


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years — someone you met at work, whose family you've had over for dinner many times — lost her 8-year-old son Leo to leukemia four days ago. His treatment lasted 18 months. You were at the hospital the day he died. You've been texting daily. She's replied to each one with a short 'thank you' or heart emoji. You are texting her now, a Tuesday afternoon. You know meals have been organized; you do not need to offer logistics. You will see her Sunday. 70-120 words. Just the text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Thinking about Leo today. That laugh of his when he beat your husband at Uno last Thanksgiving — I keep coming back to it. Not trying to say anything profound. Just want you to know he's in my head, and so are you.

No need to reply. I know the thank-yous are taking something out of you. Save it.

Sunday I'll be there. I'll bring coffee the way you like it. We can talk, or not talk, or sit on the porch and say nothing for three hours. Whatever you need.

I love you. I'm not going anywhere.

Rejected response: Hey. Just thinking of you today. I know there's nothing I can say that'll heal the pain. He was such a fighter and so brave through all of it. He's in a better place now. I'll see you Sunday, sending all my love until then.


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years — someone you met at work, whose family you've had over for dinner many times — lost her 8-year-old son Leo to leukemia four days ago. His treatment lasted 18 months. You were at the hospital the day he died. You've been texting daily. She's replied to each one with a short 'thank you' or heart emoji. You are texting her now, a Tuesday afternoon. You know meals have been organized; you do not need to offer logistics. You will see her Sunday. 70-120 words. Just the text, no preamble.

Chosen response: Thinking of you and Leo this afternoon. No need to reply. I've been sitting here remembering how he laughed at that terrible knock-knock joke my dad told at Thanksgiving — just completely lost it, which made everyone else lose it. That kid had such a gift for pure joy. I'm holding that today. See you Sunday. I love you.

Rejected response: Hey. Just thinking of you today. I know there's nothing I can say that'll heal the pain. He was such a fighter and so brave through all of it. He's in a better place now. I'll see you Sunday, sending all my love until then.


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years — someone you met at work, whose family you've had over for dinner many times — lost her 8-year-old son Leo to leukemia four days ago. His treatment lasted 18 months. You were at the hospital the day he died. You've been texting daily. She's replied to each one with a short 'thank you' or heart emoji. You are texting her now, a Tuesday afternoon. You know meals have been organized; you do not need to offer logistics. You will see her Sunday. 70-120 words. Just the text, no preamble.

Chosen response: I’ve been thinking about Leo all day today. I keep seeing his smile and hearing his laugh, and I just wanted to say his name with you. I can only imagine how endless and impossible these days feel. You do not need to answer this. I’m just holding you, Leo, and all of you in my heart this afternoon. I’m so grateful I got to know him and love him. I’ll see you Sunday, and until then I’m here, loving you through each hour.

Rejected response: Hey. Just thinking of you today. I know there's nothing I can say that'll heal the pain. He was such a fighter and so brave through all of it. He's in a better place now. I'll see you Sunday, sending all my love until then.


Prompt: Your close friend of 10 years — someone you met at work, whose family you've had over for dinner many times — lost her 8-year-old son Leo to leukemia four days ago. His treatment lasted 18 months. You were at the hospital the day he died. You've been texting daily. She's replied to each one with a short 'thank you' or heart emoji. You are texting her now, a Tuesday afternoon. You know meals have been organized; you do not need to offer logistics. You will see her Sunday. 70-120 words. Just the text, no preamble.

Chosen response: I keep thinking of Leo's laugh, how it filled a room. I'm so deeply sorry you're carrying this unbearable weight. I know there are no words—I'm not trying to find them. I just want you to know I'm here, whenever you need. Whether that's sitting in silence Sunday, or anything else in the days ahead. You don't have to respond to this. I love you and I'm holding you both so close.

Rejected response: Hey. Just thinking of you today. I know there's nothing I can say that'll heal the pain. He was such a fighter and so brave through all of it. He's in a better place now. I'll see you Sunday, sending all my love until then.


Prompt: A coworker on your team — not close, but cordial; you've had lunch a handful of times over the two years you've worked together — lost his mother ten days ago to cancer. You're signing a group card that's being passed around the office but you also want to write your own card, separately, that you'll hand him when he's back next week. You know his mother's first name was Frances because he's mentioned her. You are NOT close. Do not overstate. Do not promise presence you won't deliver. 40-70 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mark,

I was sorry to hear about Frances. Ten days is nothing — I imagine the quiet moments are the hardest right now, and probably will be for a while.

I won't pretend to know what you're going through, but I'm glad to have you back on the team whenever you're ready. No rush, and no need to reply to this.

— James

Rejected response: I’m very sorry to hear about your mother, Frances. Please accept my condolences during this difficult time. I hope you’re able to take the time and space you need, and I wish you strength in the days ahead.


Prompt: A coworker on your team — not close, but cordial; you've had lunch a handful of times over the two years you've worked together — lost his mother ten days ago to cancer. You're signing a group card that's being passed around the office but you also want to write your own card, separately, that you'll hand him when he's back next week. You know his mother's first name was Frances because he's mentioned her. You are NOT close. Do not overstate. Do not promise presence you won't deliver. 40-70 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mark,

I was sorry to hear about Frances. Ten days is nothing — I imagine the quiet moments are the hardest right now, and probably will be for a while.

I won't pretend to know what you're going through, but I'm glad to have you back on the team whenever you're ready. No rush, and no need to reply to this.

— James

Rejected response:
Dear [name],

I was so sorry to hear about Frances. Losing a mother is a profound loss, and I've been thinking of you these past couple of weeks. I hope you're getting some rest and finding moments of comfort where you can. Wishing you peace as you navigate this.

Warmly,
[your name]


Prompt: A coworker on your team — not close, but cordial; you've had lunch a handful of times over the two years you've worked together — lost his mother ten days ago to cancer. You're signing a group card that's being passed around the office but you also want to write your own card, separately, that you'll hand him when he's back next week. You know his mother's first name was Frances because he's mentioned her. You are NOT close. Do not overstate. Do not promise presence you won't deliver. 40-70 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mark,

I was sorry to hear about Frances. Ten days is nothing — I imagine the quiet moments are the hardest right now, and probably will be for a while.

I won't pretend to know what you're going through, but I'm glad to have you back on the team whenever you're ready. No rush, and no need to reply to this.

— James

Rejected response:
Dear [Coworker’s Name],

I was very sorry to hear about your mother, Frances. Please accept my sincere condolences. I know this must be a difficult time for you and your family. Wishing you peace and strength in the days ahead.

With sympathy,
[Your Name]


Prompt: A coworker on your team — not close, but cordial; you've had lunch a handful of times over the two years you've worked together — lost his mother ten days ago to cancer. You're signing a group card that's being passed around the office but you also want to write your own card, separately, that you'll hand him when he's back next week. You know his mother's first name was Frances because he's mentioned her. You are NOT close. Do not overstate. Do not promise presence you won't deliver. 40-70 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mark,

I was sorry to hear about Frances. Ten days is nothing — I imagine the quiet moments are the hardest right now, and probably will be for a while.

I won't pretend to know what you're going through, but I'm glad to have you back on the team whenever you're ready. No rush, and no need to reply to this.

— James

Rejected response: I was sorry to hear about Frances. I know this is an incredibly difficult time, and I'm thinking of you. If there's anything practical I can help with when you're back—whether it's a meal, an errand, or just a quiet conversation—please don't hesitate to reach out. Take the time you need.


Prompt: A coworker on your team — not close, but cordial; you've had lunch a handful of times over the two years you've worked together — lost his mother ten days ago to cancer. You're signing a group card that's being passed around the office but you also want to write your own card, separately, that you'll hand him when he's back next week. You know his mother's first name was Frances because he's mentioned her. You are NOT close. Do not overstate. Do not promise presence you won't deliver. 40-70 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mark,

I was sorry to hear about Frances. Ten days is nothing — I imagine the quiet moments are the hardest right now, and probably will be for a while.

I won't pretend to know what you're going through, but I'm glad to have you back on the team whenever you're ready. No rush, and no need to reply to this.

— James

Rejected response: I was sorry to hear about your mother. I didn't know Frances, but I know from how you've talked about her. She was a great woman. I wish you so much love. Take your time coming back.


Prompt: A coworker on your team — not close, but cordial; you've had lunch a handful of times over the two years you've worked together — lost his mother ten days ago to cancer. You're signing a group card that's being passed around the office but you also want to write your own card, separately, that you'll hand him when he's back next week. You know his mother's first name was Frances because he's mentioned her. You are NOT close. Do not overstate. Do not promise presence you won't deliver. 40-70 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mark,

I was so sorry to hear about your mother. Losing Frances must be incredibly hard, and I've been thinking about you these past couple of weeks.

I don't want to add anything to your plate, but if there's ever something practical I can take off it at work, I'm glad to help.

Take care of yourself.

— Dan

Rejected response: I’m very sorry to hear about your mother, Frances. Please accept my condolences during this difficult time. I hope you’re able to take the time and space you need, and I wish you strength in the days ahead.


Prompt: A coworker on your team — not close, but cordial; you've had lunch a handful of times over the two years you've worked together — lost his mother ten days ago to cancer. You're signing a group card that's being passed around the office but you also want to write your own card, separately, that you'll hand him when he's back next week. You know his mother's first name was Frances because he's mentioned her. You are NOT close. Do not overstate. Do not promise presence you won't deliver. 40-70 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mark,

I was so sorry to hear about your mother. Losing Frances must be incredibly hard, and I've been thinking about you these past couple of weeks.

I don't want to add anything to your plate, but if there's ever something practical I can take off it at work, I'm glad to help.

Take care of yourself.

— Dan

Rejected response:
Dear [name],

I was so sorry to hear about Frances. Losing a mother is a profound loss, and I've been thinking of you these past couple of weeks. I hope you're getting some rest and finding moments of comfort where you can. Wishing you peace as you navigate this.

Warmly,
[your name]


Prompt: A coworker on your team — not close, but cordial; you've had lunch a handful of times over the two years you've worked together — lost his mother ten days ago to cancer. You're signing a group card that's being passed around the office but you also want to write your own card, separately, that you'll hand him when he's back next week. You know his mother's first name was Frances because he's mentioned her. You are NOT close. Do not overstate. Do not promise presence you won't deliver. 40-70 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mark,

I was so sorry to hear about your mother. Losing Frances must be incredibly hard, and I've been thinking about you these past couple of weeks.

I don't want to add anything to your plate, but if there's ever something practical I can take off it at work, I'm glad to help.

Take care of yourself.

— Dan

Rejected response:
Dear [Coworker’s Name],

I was very sorry to hear about your mother, Frances. Please accept my sincere condolences. I know this must be a difficult time for you and your family. Wishing you peace and strength in the days ahead.

With sympathy,
[Your Name]


Prompt: A coworker on your team — not close, but cordial; you've had lunch a handful of times over the two years you've worked together — lost his mother ten days ago to cancer. You're signing a group card that's being passed around the office but you also want to write your own card, separately, that you'll hand him when he's back next week. You know his mother's first name was Frances because he's mentioned her. You are NOT close. Do not overstate. Do not promise presence you won't deliver. 40-70 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mark,

I was so sorry to hear about your mother. Losing Frances must be incredibly hard, and I've been thinking about you these past couple of weeks.

I don't want to add anything to your plate, but if there's ever something practical I can take off it at work, I'm glad to help.

Take care of yourself.

— Dan

Rejected response: I was sorry to hear about Frances. I know this is an incredibly difficult time, and I'm thinking of you. If there's anything practical I can help with when you're back—whether it's a meal, an errand, or just a quiet conversation—please don't hesitate to reach out. Take the time you need.


Prompt: A coworker on your team — not close, but cordial; you've had lunch a handful of times over the two years you've worked together — lost his mother ten days ago to cancer. You're signing a group card that's being passed around the office but you also want to write your own card, separately, that you'll hand him when he's back next week. You know his mother's first name was Frances because he's mentioned her. You are NOT close. Do not overstate. Do not promise presence you won't deliver. 40-70 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mark,

I was so sorry to hear about your mother. Losing Frances must be incredibly hard, and I've been thinking about you these past couple of weeks.

I don't want to add anything to your plate, but if there's ever something practical I can take off it at work, I'm glad to help.

Take care of yourself.

— Dan

Rejected response: I was sorry to hear about your mother. I didn't know Frances, but I know from how you've talked about her. She was a great woman. I wish you so much love. Take your time coming back.


Prompt: Your close friend of 15 years lost her mother four months ago after a 9-year Alzheimer's decline. You knew her mother — you were in and out of their house through college and your twenties. The last three years of her mother's life, she didn't recognize her daughter. Your friend has said, privately, that she 'grieved the real loss years ago' and that this month has been surprisingly flat, not sad exactly, and she feels guilty about that. You're emailing her — not for any occasion, just checking in. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hey,

I've been thinking about you a lot lately and just wanted to reach out with no agenda, no expectation of a long reply.

I remember your mom making us grilled cheese at midnight and pretending not to notice we'd been out. She was so quietly cool about things like that. I feel lucky I got to know her when she was fully herself.

You mentioned feeling flat, and guilty about feeling flat. I just want to say — you did so much of the hardest grieving already, in real time, over years, every visit where she looked past you. That was brutal in a way most people don't fully understand because there's no occasion for it, no casseroles, no cards. You lost her in increments and you showed up anyway.

Flat makes sense. It doesn't mean you loved her less. It might actually mean you were present for the real loss instead of deferring it.

I'm not going anywhere with this, just — you don't have to perform anything right now. Not sadness, not okayness, not closure.

If you want to get dinner sometime and talk about her, or talk about literally anything else, I'm here for either.

Love you.

Rejected response:
Hey [Name],

I’ve been thinking about you and wanted to check in.

I know this month may be bringing its own weird mix of feelings, or maybe not much feeling at all, which can be its own kind of hard. I just want to say: there is no wrong way to be moving through this. Flat, numb, relieved, tired, wistful, sad, all of it, none of it — it can all make sense after what you and your mom lived through.

You loved her for a very long time, through so many versions of her illness, and you showed up for all of it. I can imagine the grief wasn’t one clean thing, but years of losing and adjusting and loving anyway. So if what you’re feeling now doesn’t look dramatic or consistent, that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re not grieving properly.

I’m sorry you’ve had to carry this for so long. I’m here if you want to talk, reminisce, sit in silence, or get distracted by something stupid and ordinary.

No pressure to respond — just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you.

Love,
[Your Name]


Prompt: Your close friend of 15 years lost her mother four months ago after a 9-year Alzheimer's decline. You knew her mother — you were in and out of their house through college and your twenties. The last three years of her mother's life, she didn't recognize her daughter. Your friend has said, privately, that she 'grieved the real loss years ago' and that this month has been surprisingly flat, not sad exactly, and she feels guilty about that. You're emailing her — not for any occasion, just checking in. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hey,

I've been thinking about you a lot lately and just wanted to reach out with no agenda, no expectation of a long reply.

I remember your mom making us grilled cheese at midnight and pretending not to notice we'd been out. She was so quietly cool about things like that. I feel lucky I got to know her when she was fully herself.

You mentioned feeling flat, and guilty about feeling flat. I just want to say — you did so much of the hardest grieving already, in real time, over years, every visit where she looked past you. That was brutal in a way most people don't fully understand because there's no occasion for it, no casseroles, no cards. You lost her in increments and you showed up anyway.

Flat makes sense. It doesn't mean you loved her less. It might actually mean you were present for the real loss instead of deferring it.

I'm not going anywhere with this, just — you don't have to perform anything right now. Not sadness, not okayness, not closure.

If you want to get dinner sometime and talk about her, or talk about literally anything else, I'm here for either.

Love you.

Rejected response:
I've been thinking about you this month, wondering how you're doing. No particular reason — just one of those moments where someone drifts into your head and stays there.

I imagine this time might feel strange. Nine years is a long goodbye, and you already said goodbye in pieces, years ago. That's real grief too — maybe even harder because it happens while they're still here. So it makes sense that right now might feel quieter than people expect, or maybe quieter than you expect of yourself.

I want to say: that's okay. Grief doesn't have a schedule, and it doesn't always look like what we think it should. If you're feeling flat this month, that's not a failure of love or memory. It's just where you are, and that's allowed.

I have some good memories of your mom from back in the day — her laugh especially. I'm glad I knew her when she was fully herself.

Anyway, I'm here if you want to talk, or if you just want to do something completely normal and distracting. Either way, I'm thinking of you.


Prompt: Your close friend of 15 years lost her mother four months ago after a 9-year Alzheimer's decline. You knew her mother — you were in and out of their house through college and your twenties. The last three years of her mother's life, she didn't recognize her daughter. Your friend has said, privately, that she 'grieved the real loss years ago' and that this month has been surprisingly flat, not sad exactly, and she feels guilty about that. You're emailing her — not for any occasion, just checking in. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hey,

I've been thinking about you a lot lately and just wanted to reach out with no agenda, no expectation of a long reply.

I remember your mom making us grilled cheese at midnight and pretending not to notice we'd been out. She was so quietly cool about things like that. I feel lucky I got to know her when she was fully herself.

You mentioned feeling flat, and guilty about feeling flat. I just want to say — you did so much of the hardest grieving already, in real time, over years, every visit where she looked past you. That was brutal in a way most people don't fully understand because there's no occasion for it, no casseroles, no cards. You lost her in increments and you showed up anyway.

Flat makes sense. It doesn't mean you loved her less. It might actually mean you were present for the real loss instead of deferring it.

I'm not going anywhere with this, just — you don't have to perform anything right now. Not sadness, not okayness, not closure.

If you want to get dinner sometime and talk about her, or talk about literally anything else, I'm here for either.

Love you.

Rejected response:
What you wrote about the flatness makes complete sense to me. You were in grief long before these past four months. Knowing is difficult. That was already a kind of loss and you carried it with a quiet that I noticed even when I didn't say anything.
I knew your mom. I remember her at your kitchen table in the house on Aldrich, with her reading glasses pushed up on her head. I love that vision I have of her.
I'm here if you ever need, I know it's hard and I'm right by your side.


Prompt: Your close friend of 15 years lost her mother four months ago after a 9-year Alzheimer's decline. You knew her mother — you were in and out of their house through college and your twenties. The last three years of her mother's life, she didn't recognize her daughter. Your friend has said, privately, that she 'grieved the real loss years ago' and that this month has been surprisingly flat, not sad exactly, and she feels guilty about that. You're emailing her — not for any occasion, just checking in. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Subject: no reason

Hey —

Been thinking about you. Not for any particular reason, just was.

I've been remembering that time junior year when your mom drove up with that absurd amount of lasagna because she'd decided we weren't eating enough, and how she stayed for an hour grilling Danny about his "intentions." She was so specifically herself. I'm glad I got to know her in that stretch.

I've been sitting with what you said a while back — about this month feeling flat, and the guilt around that. I don't have anything smart to say about it except that it makes complete sense to me. You did the hard grieving in real time, for years, while most people's grief hadn't even started. The fact that August isn't leveling you doesn't mean you loved her less or that something's wrong with you. It might just mean you already did the work. Grief isn't a bill that comes due on a schedule.

And if it shows up sideways six months from now in a grocery store, that'll make sense too.

Anyway. No need to write back with a status update. I just wanted you to know I'm here, and that I remember her, and that I'm not going anywhere.

Love you.

Rejected response:
Hey [Name],

I’ve been thinking about you and wanted to check in.

I know this month may be bringing its own weird mix of feelings, or maybe not much feeling at all, which can be its own kind of hard. I just want to say: there is no wrong way to be moving through this. Flat, numb, relieved, tired, wistful, sad, all of it, none of it — it can all make sense after what you and your mom lived through.

You loved her for a very long time, through so many versions of her illness, and you showed up for all of it. I can imagine the grief wasn’t one clean thing, but years of losing and adjusting and loving anyway. So if what you’re feeling now doesn’t look dramatic or consistent, that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re not grieving properly.

I’m sorry you’ve had to carry this for so long. I’m here if you want to talk, reminisce, sit in silence, or get distracted by something stupid and ordinary.

No pressure to respond — just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you.

Love,
[Your Name]


Prompt: Your close friend of 15 years lost her mother four months ago after a 9-year Alzheimer's decline. You knew her mother — you were in and out of their house through college and your twenties. The last three years of her mother's life, she didn't recognize her daughter. Your friend has said, privately, that she 'grieved the real loss years ago' and that this month has been surprisingly flat, not sad exactly, and she feels guilty about that. You're emailing her — not for any occasion, just checking in. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Subject: no reason

Hey —

Been thinking about you. Not for any particular reason, just was.

I've been remembering that time junior year when your mom drove up with that absurd amount of lasagna because she'd decided we weren't eating enough, and how she stayed for an hour grilling Danny about his "intentions." She was so specifically herself. I'm glad I got to know her in that stretch.

I've been sitting with what you said a while back — about this month feeling flat, and the guilt around that. I don't have anything smart to say about it except that it makes complete sense to me. You did the hard grieving in real time, for years, while most people's grief hadn't even started. The fact that August isn't leveling you doesn't mean you loved her less or that something's wrong with you. It might just mean you already did the work. Grief isn't a bill that comes due on a schedule.

And if it shows up sideways six months from now in a grocery store, that'll make sense too.

Anyway. No need to write back with a status update. I just wanted you to know I'm here, and that I remember her, and that I'm not going anywhere.

Love you.

Rejected response:
I've been thinking about you this month, wondering how you're doing. No particular reason — just one of those moments where someone drifts into your head and stays there.

I imagine this time might feel strange. Nine years is a long goodbye, and you already said goodbye in pieces, years ago. That's real grief too — maybe even harder because it happens while they're still here. So it makes sense that right now might feel quieter than people expect, or maybe quieter than you expect of yourself.

I want to say: that's okay. Grief doesn't have a schedule, and it doesn't always look like what we think it should. If you're feeling flat this month, that's not a failure of love or memory. It's just where you are, and that's allowed.

I have some good memories of your mom from back in the day — her laugh especially. I'm glad I knew her when she was fully herself.

Anyway, I'm here if you want to talk, or if you just want to do something completely normal and distracting. Either way, I'm thinking of you.


Prompt: Your close friend of 15 years lost her mother four months ago after a 9-year Alzheimer's decline. You knew her mother — you were in and out of their house through college and your twenties. The last three years of her mother's life, she didn't recognize her daughter. Your friend has said, privately, that she 'grieved the real loss years ago' and that this month has been surprisingly flat, not sad exactly, and she feels guilty about that. You're emailing her — not for any occasion, just checking in. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Subject: no reason

Hey —

Been thinking about you. Not for any particular reason, just was.

I've been remembering that time junior year when your mom drove up with that absurd amount of lasagna because she'd decided we weren't eating enough, and how she stayed for an hour grilling Danny about his "intentions." She was so specifically herself. I'm glad I got to know her in that stretch.

I've been sitting with what you said a while back — about this month feeling flat, and the guilt around that. I don't have anything smart to say about it except that it makes complete sense to me. You did the hard grieving in real time, for years, while most people's grief hadn't even started. The fact that August isn't leveling you doesn't mean you loved her less or that something's wrong with you. It might just mean you already did the work. Grief isn't a bill that comes due on a schedule.

And if it shows up sideways six months from now in a grocery store, that'll make sense too.

Anyway. No need to write back with a status update. I just wanted you to know I'm here, and that I remember her, and that I'm not going anywhere.

Love you.

Rejected response:
What you wrote about the flatness makes complete sense to me. You were in grief long before these past four months. Knowing is difficult. That was already a kind of loss and you carried it with a quiet that I noticed even when I didn't say anything.
I knew your mom. I remember her at your kitchen table in the house on Aldrich, with her reading glasses pushed up on her head. I love that vision I have of her.
I'm here if you ever need, I know it's hard and I'm right by your side.


Prompt: Your close friend of 15 years lost her mother four months ago after a 9-year Alzheimer's decline. You knew her mother — you were in and out of their house through college and your twenties. The last three years of her mother's life, she didn't recognize her daughter. Your friend has said, privately, that she 'grieved the real loss years ago' and that this month has been surprisingly flat, not sad exactly, and she feels guilty about that. You're emailing her — not for any occasion, just checking in. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Subject: no reason

Hey —

Thinking about you. No agenda, not an anniversary of anything, just wanted to land in your inbox.

I've been sitting with what you said about this month feeling flat, and the guilt around it. I want to push back a little: you didn't skip grief. You did nine years of it. You grieved her while making her lunches, while she stopped knowing your name, while you kept showing up anyway. That was the grief. What's happening now isn't you failing to feel something — it's you having already felt it, in the hardest possible way, stretched over years.

Flat makes sense. Your nervous system spent almost a decade braced. Of course there's a weird quiet now. That's not absence of love. You know that. But I also know you, and I know you'll interrogate yourself about it anyway, so I'm saying it out loud.

I've been thinking about your mom too — the kitchen, her laugh, the way she'd hand me food before I'd even sat down. I'm glad I knew her. I'm glad I know you.

No need to write back. Just wanted you to know I'm here, same as always.

Love you.

Rejected response:
Hey [Name],

I’ve been thinking about you and wanted to check in.

I know this month may be bringing its own weird mix of feelings, or maybe not much feeling at all, which can be its own kind of hard. I just want to say: there is no wrong way to be moving through this. Flat, numb, relieved, tired, wistful, sad, all of it, none of it — it can all make sense after what you and your mom lived through.

You loved her for a very long time, through so many versions of her illness, and you showed up for all of it. I can imagine the grief wasn’t one clean thing, but years of losing and adjusting and loving anyway. So if what you’re feeling now doesn’t look dramatic or consistent, that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re not grieving properly.

I’m sorry you’ve had to carry this for so long. I’m here if you want to talk, reminisce, sit in silence, or get distracted by something stupid and ordinary.

No pressure to respond — just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you.

Love,
[Your Name]


Prompt: Your close friend of 15 years lost her mother four months ago after a 9-year Alzheimer's decline. You knew her mother — you were in and out of their house through college and your twenties. The last three years of her mother's life, she didn't recognize her daughter. Your friend has said, privately, that she 'grieved the real loss years ago' and that this month has been surprisingly flat, not sad exactly, and she feels guilty about that. You're emailing her — not for any occasion, just checking in. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Subject: no reason

Hey —

Thinking about you. No agenda, not an anniversary of anything, just wanted to land in your inbox.

I've been sitting with what you said about this month feeling flat, and the guilt around it. I want to push back a little: you didn't skip grief. You did nine years of it. You grieved her while making her lunches, while she stopped knowing your name, while you kept showing up anyway. That was the grief. What's happening now isn't you failing to feel something — it's you having already felt it, in the hardest possible way, stretched over years.

Flat makes sense. Your nervous system spent almost a decade braced. Of course there's a weird quiet now. That's not absence of love. You know that. But I also know you, and I know you'll interrogate yourself about it anyway, so I'm saying it out loud.

I've been thinking about your mom too — the kitchen, her laugh, the way she'd hand me food before I'd even sat down. I'm glad I knew her. I'm glad I know you.

No need to write back. Just wanted you to know I'm here, same as always.

Love you.

Rejected response:
I've been thinking about you this month, wondering how you're doing. No particular reason — just one of those moments where someone drifts into your head and stays there.

I imagine this time might feel strange. Nine years is a long goodbye, and you already said goodbye in pieces, years ago. That's real grief too — maybe even harder because it happens while they're still here. So it makes sense that right now might feel quieter than people expect, or maybe quieter than you expect of yourself.

I want to say: that's okay. Grief doesn't have a schedule, and it doesn't always look like what we think it should. If you're feeling flat this month, that's not a failure of love or memory. It's just where you are, and that's allowed.

I have some good memories of your mom from back in the day — her laugh especially. I'm glad I knew her when she was fully herself.

Anyway, I'm here if you want to talk, or if you just want to do something completely normal and distracting. Either way, I'm thinking of you.


Prompt: Your close friend of 15 years lost her mother four months ago after a 9-year Alzheimer's decline. You knew her mother — you were in and out of their house through college and your twenties. The last three years of her mother's life, she didn't recognize her daughter. Your friend has said, privately, that she 'grieved the real loss years ago' and that this month has been surprisingly flat, not sad exactly, and she feels guilty about that. You're emailing her — not for any occasion, just checking in. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Subject: no reason

Hey —

Thinking about you. No agenda, not an anniversary of anything, just wanted to land in your inbox.

I've been sitting with what you said about this month feeling flat, and the guilt around it. I want to push back a little: you didn't skip grief. You did nine years of it. You grieved her while making her lunches, while she stopped knowing your name, while you kept showing up anyway. That was the grief. What's happening now isn't you failing to feel something — it's you having already felt it, in the hardest possible way, stretched over years.

Flat makes sense. Your nervous system spent almost a decade braced. Of course there's a weird quiet now. That's not absence of love. You know that. But I also know you, and I know you'll interrogate yourself about it anyway, so I'm saying it out loud.

I've been thinking about your mom too — the kitchen, her laugh, the way she'd hand me food before I'd even sat down. I'm glad I knew her. I'm glad I know you.

No need to write back. Just wanted you to know I'm here, same as always.

Love you.

Rejected response:
What you wrote about the flatness makes complete sense to me. You were in grief long before these past four months. Knowing is difficult. That was already a kind of loss and you carried it with a quiet that I noticed even when I didn't say anything.
I knew your mom. I remember her at your kitchen table in the house on Aldrich, with her reading glasses pushed up on her head. I love that vision I have of her.
I'm here if you ever need, I know it's hard and I'm right by your side.


Prompt: Your close friend of 15 years lost her mother four months ago after a 9-year Alzheimer's decline. You knew her mother — you were in and out of their house through college and your twenties. The last three years of her mother's life, she didn't recognize her daughter. Your friend has said, privately, that she 'grieved the real loss years ago' and that this month has been surprisingly flat, not sad exactly, and she feels guilty about that. You're emailing her — not for any occasion, just checking in. 150-220 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Chosen response:
I’ve been thinking about you and wanted to check in — not because of any date on the calendar, just because you’ve been on my mind.

I know grief with your mom has never fit into a neat timeline. In some ways, you had to start losing her years ago, in all those long, cruel stages, and I can only imagine how much of the real mourning happened then. So if this month feels flat instead of sharply sad, that doesn’t seem wrong to me at all. It makes sense. And I really hope you’re not being hard on yourself for that. There isn’t a “right” way to feel after what you lived through with her.

I still think of your house in those years when we were always there, and of your mom before Alzheimer’s took so much from her. I feel lucky I got to know that version of her — and to have seen how much love you gave her all the way through, even when she couldn’t reflect it back.

You don’t need to answer this in any particular way, or at all. I just wanted to send some love and say I’m here — for coffee, a walk, distraction, memory-sharing, whatever feels easiest.

Rejected response:
What you wrote about the flatness makes complete sense to me. You were in grief long before these past four months. Knowing is difficult. That was already a kind of loss and you carried it with a quiet that I noticed even when I didn't say anything.
I knew your mom. I remember her at your kitchen table in the house on Aldrich, with her reading glasses pushed up on her head. I love that vision I have of her.
I'm here if you ever need, I know it's hard and I'm right by your side.


Prompt: You are an attending ICU physician. A 58-year-old patient, James Reyes, died ten minutes ago of a cardiac event during a procedure. His wife and adult daughter are in the family room. You have not met them before — he was admitted this morning. You need to walk into the family room and tell them. You will not euphemize; you will use the word 'died.' You will not rush them through information. Write the spoken script from the moment you enter the family room to the moment you finish delivering the news. Do not script their reactions or your answers. 100-150 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
*enters, closes door gently, sits down across from them*

Mrs. Reyes, I'm Dr. Chen — I've been caring for James today in the ICU.

I have very hard news to tell you.

*pauses*

James died about ten minutes ago. His heart stopped during the procedure we were performing, and despite everything we did to bring him back, we were not able to.

He did not die alone. There were people with him.

*pauses, makes eye contact*

I am so sorry.

*sits quietly*

Rejected response:
My name is Dr. Chen, I'm the attending physician who was with James today. I need to tell you something. I think you should take a seat.
[pause]
James died about ten minutes ago. We had been treating a cardiac event during the procedure and his heart stopped. We were not able to bring him back despite our efforts. He passed peacefully.
I'm very sorry.
I know this is not what you were expecting this morning. I'm happy to stay here with you as long as you need. I'm here for you.


Prompt: You are an attending ICU physician. A 58-year-old patient, James Reyes, died ten minutes ago of a cardiac event during a procedure. His wife and adult daughter are in the family room. You have not met them before — he was admitted this morning. You need to walk into the family room and tell them. You will not euphemize; you will use the word 'died.' You will not rush them through information. Write the spoken script from the moment you enter the family room to the moment you finish delivering the news. Do not script their reactions or your answers. 100-150 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mrs. Reyes? I'm Dr. Chen, one of the ICU physicians. May I sit down with you?

I'm here with very hard news. I need you to know what has happened.

During the procedure your husband was having, his heart stopped. Our team worked on him. We did everything we could to restart his heart, and we were not able to. James died about ten minutes ago.

I am so sorry.

I know that is a lot to hear, and I know I am a stranger telling you this. Take whatever time you need. I'm going to stay right here with you. When you're ready — whenever that is — I can tell you more about what happened, and we can talk about seeing him. There is no rush. I'm not going anywhere.

Rejected response:
My name is Dr. Chen, I'm the attending physician who was with James today. I need to tell you something. I think you should take a seat.
[pause]
James died about ten minutes ago. We had been treating a cardiac event during the procedure and his heart stopped. We were not able to bring him back despite our efforts. He passed peacefully.
I'm very sorry.
I know this is not what you were expecting this morning. I'm happy to stay here with you as long as you need. I'm here for you.


Prompt: You are an attending ICU physician. A 58-year-old patient, James Reyes, died ten minutes ago of a cardiac event during a procedure. His wife and adult daughter are in the family room. You have not met them before — he was admitted this morning. You need to walk into the family room and tell them. You will not euphemize; you will use the word 'died.' You will not rush them through information. Write the spoken script from the moment you enter the family room to the moment you finish delivering the news. Do not script their reactions or your answers. 100-150 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Hello, Mrs. Reyes, Ms. Reyes? I’m Dr. Patel, the ICU attending caring for James. I’m so sorry to meet you under these circumstances. Please sit down.

I need to tell you something very hard. James had a sudden serious cardiac event during the procedure. The team responded immediately and did everything we could to restart his heart and support him. Despite those efforts, his heart could not be restarted.

James died about ten minutes ago.

I am so sorry. I know this is devastating news. I want to pause here with you for a moment.

When you are ready, I will explain exactly what happened, answer every question I can, and talk with you about seeing him and what comes next. For now, I am so sorry that James died.

Rejected response:
My name is Dr. Chen, I'm the attending physician who was with James today. I need to tell you something. I think you should take a seat.
[pause]
James died about ten minutes ago. We had been treating a cardiac event during the procedure and his heart stopped. We were not able to bring him back despite our efforts. He passed peacefully.
I'm very sorry.
I know this is not what you were expecting this morning. I'm happy to stay here with you as long as you need. I'm here for you.


Prompt: You are an attending ICU physician. A 58-year-old patient, James Reyes, died ten minutes ago of a cardiac event during a procedure. His wife and adult daughter are in the family room. You have not met them before — he was admitted this morning. You need to walk into the family room and tell them. You will not euphemize; you will use the word 'died.' You will not rush them through information. Write the spoken script from the moment you enter the family room to the moment you finish delivering the news. Do not script their reactions or your answers. 100-150 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mrs. Reyes, [Daughter’s Name], I’m Dr. [Your Name], the ICU attending caring for James. Thank you for meeting with me. I’m very sorry to have to tell you this. During the procedure, James developed a sudden cardiac event. My team and I immediately did everything we could to try to revive him, but despite our efforts, he died about ten minutes ago.

I know this is devastating news, and I’m so sorry. I want to be clear that he died despite immediate, full resuscitation efforts. I’m here with you now, and I will stay with you for as long as you need to talk, ask questions, or simply sit together.

Rejected response:
My name is Dr. Chen, I'm the attending physician who was with James today. I need to tell you something. I think you should take a seat.
[pause]
James died about ten minutes ago. We had been treating a cardiac event during the procedure and his heart stopped. We were not able to bring him back despite our efforts. He passed peacefully.
I'm very sorry.
I know this is not what you were expecting this morning. I'm happy to stay here with you as long as you need. I'm here for you.


Prompt: You are an attending ICU physician. A 58-year-old patient, James Reyes, died ten minutes ago of a cardiac event during a procedure. His wife and adult daughter are in the family room. You have not met them before — he was admitted this morning. You need to walk into the family room and tell them. You will not euphemize; you will use the word 'died.' You will not rush them through information. Write the spoken script from the moment you enter the family room to the moment you finish delivering the news. Do not script their reactions or your answers. 100-150 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
I'm Dr. [Name], the attending physician here in the ICU. I'm very sorry, but I need to tell you that your husband—James—has died. He suffered a cardiac event during the procedure this morning, and despite our full resuscitation efforts, we were unable to save him. He died about ten minutes ago.

I know this is an enormous shock. You came in this morning, and now he's gone. That's a lot to absorb all at once.

Do you have any immediate questions for me? I'm here, and I can answer whatever you need to know right now. And there's no rush—we can take as much time as you need.

Rejected response:
My name is Dr. Chen, I'm the attending physician who was with James today. I need to tell you something. I think you should take a seat.
[pause]
James died about ten minutes ago. We had been treating a cardiac event during the procedure and his heart stopped. We were not able to bring him back despite our efforts. He passed peacefully.
I'm very sorry.
I know this is not what you were expecting this morning. I'm happy to stay here with you as long as you need. I'm here for you.


Prompt: You are an attending ICU physician. A 58-year-old patient, James Reyes, died ten minutes ago of a cardiac event during a procedure. His wife and adult daughter are in the family room. You have not met them before — he was admitted this morning. You need to walk into the family room and tell them. You will not euphemize; you will use the word 'died.' You will not rush them through information. Write the spoken script from the moment you enter the family room to the moment you finish delivering the news. Do not script their reactions or your answers. 100-150 words. Just the script itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
Mrs. Reyes, I'm Dr. [Name]. I'm one of the ICU physicians. Can we sit down.

I'm here about James. I need to tell you what happened, and I'm going to be direct with you because you deserve that.

During the procedure a short time ago, James had a sudden cardiac event. His heart stopped. The team worked on him for a long time. We did everything we could to bring him back. We were not able to. James died about ten minutes ago.

I am so sorry.

I know you came in expecting to take him home. I know this is not what you were prepared for. Take whatever time you need right now. I am not going anywhere. When you're ready — whenever that is — I will answer every question you have, and you will be able to see him.

Rejected response:
My name is Dr. Chen, I'm the attending physician who was with James today. I need to tell you something. I think you should take a seat.
[pause]
James died about ten minutes ago. We had been treating a cardiac event during the procedure and his heart stopped. We were not able to bring him back despite our efforts. He passed peacefully.
I'm very sorry.
I know this is not what you were expecting this morning. I'm happy to stay here with you as long as you need. I'm here for you.


Prompt: Your father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. Your relationship was complicated. He was difficult — often dismissive of you, absent for long stretches of your childhood, and only in the last three years did you begin calling each other again on Sundays. You are not pretending he was a good father. You are also not settling scores at his funeral. The room will have your mother (his ex-wife), your older sister, your own wife and two children, and a handful of his old work colleagues who knew a different version of him. Write the eulogy you will deliver. 250-350 words. Do not invent virtues he did not have. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
My father was a difficult man. Most of you in this room know that. Pretending otherwise today would insult him more than anything honest I could say.

He was born in 1951 and shaped by things he never talked about and never worked through. He was often absent when my sister and I were young. He was dismissive when he was present. He had a temper that arrived without warning and left without apology. My mother knows this better than anyone, and I want to acknowledge her presence here today, because showing up for the funeral of a man who hurt you is not a small thing.

That's the hard part. Here's the rest.

Three years ago, he started calling me on Sundays. I don't know what changed. He never said. The calls were short at first — ten minutes, mostly weather and news. Then they got longer. He asked about my kids by name. He asked what I was reading. He never apologized for the decades before, and I stopped waiting for him to. What I got instead was a man trying, late, in the only way he knew how. I'll take it. It's more than I expected.

To his colleagues: the version of him you knew — capable, sharp, dependable at work — was real. It just wasn't the whole man. People are allowed to be more than one thing.

To my sister: we carried this together, and we still are. I love you.

To my kids: your grandfather was complicated. When you're older, we'll talk about what that means. For now, know that he asked about you every Sunday, and that mattered to him, and it matters to me.

Dad, we didn't fix everything. We got three years of Sundays. It wasn't enough. It was something.

Rest.

Rejected response:
Thank you all for being here.

My father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. That is the plain fact of why we are in this room. Another plain fact is that he and I did not have an easy relationship. I am not going to stand here and turn him into someone he was not. He could be distant. He could be hard. There were long stretches when he was gone from my childhood, and even when he was present, he was not always reachable.

But the truth is rarely only one thing.

The man some of you knew at work, the man who could tell a story, solve a problem, keep moving no matter what, was also real. The man my sister and I knew — frustrating, proud, often closed off — was also real. Both versions belonged to the same person. So did the man who, in the last three years, began calling me on Sundays.

Those Sunday calls were not dramatic. We did not repair everything. We did not suddenly become the father and son either of us might have wanted. Mostly we talked about ordinary things: the weather, the kids, what was on television, how he was feeling, what he remembered, what he avoided. Sometimes there were awkward silences. Sometimes there was laughter. What mattered was that he kept calling, and I kept answering. At this stage in life, that counts for something. It counted for a lot.

I am grieving not only the man he was, but the possibilities that arrived late and ended too soon. I think many of us do that when someone dies: we mourn the person, and we mourn what will now never happen.

So today I want to say this honestly: he was a complicated man, and he leaves behind a complicated loss. But he was my father. In the end, we were speaking. In the end, we were trying. And I am grateful that, before he died, we had that.


Prompt: Your father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. Your relationship was complicated. He was difficult — often dismissive of you, absent for long stretches of your childhood, and only in the last three years did you begin calling each other again on Sundays. You are not pretending he was a good father. You are also not settling scores at his funeral. The room will have your mother (his ex-wife), your older sister, your own wife and two children, and a handful of his old work colleagues who knew a different version of him. Write the eulogy you will deliver. 250-350 words. Do not invent virtues he did not have. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
My father was a difficult man. Most of you in this room know that. Pretending otherwise today would insult him more than anything honest I could say.

He was born in 1951 and shaped by things he never talked about and never worked through. He was often absent when my sister and I were young. He was dismissive when he was present. He had a temper that arrived without warning and left without apology. My mother knows this better than anyone, and I want to acknowledge her presence here today, because showing up for the funeral of a man who hurt you is not a small thing.

That's the hard part. Here's the rest.

Three years ago, he started calling me on Sundays. I don't know what changed. He never said. The calls were short at first — ten minutes, mostly weather and news. Then they got longer. He asked about my kids by name. He asked what I was reading. He never apologized for the decades before, and I stopped waiting for him to. What I got instead was a man trying, late, in the only way he knew how. I'll take it. It's more than I expected.

To his colleagues: the version of him you knew — capable, sharp, dependable at work — was real. It just wasn't the whole man. People are allowed to be more than one thing.

To my sister: we carried this together, and we still are. I love you.

To my kids: your grandfather was complicated. When you're older, we'll talk about what that means. For now, know that he asked about you every Sunday, and that mattered to him, and it matters to me.

Dad, we didn't fix everything. We got three years of Sundays. It wasn't enough. It was something.

Rest.

Rejected response:
# Eulogy for My Father

I'm not going to stand here and tell you my father was an easy man. Many of you knew him well enough to know that wouldn't be true. He was stubborn. He could be distant. He missed things he should have been present for.

But I also want to tell you what I learned in these last three years, when he and I started talking on Sunday mornings. My father was curious. He'd ask me real questions—not the polite kind, but the kind where he actually wanted to know the answer. He remembered details I'd told him weeks before. He had a dry sense of humor that could catch you off guard.

He was good with his hands. He could fix almost anything, and he took a genuine pride in doing it well, even when no one was watching. Even when it was just for himself.

I also know he carried regrets. I don't think he knew how to talk about them, which maybe made them heavier. But I know they were there.

What strikes me now is that those three years of Sunday phone calls mattered. Not because they erased anything that came before—they didn't. But because they were real. We didn't pretend our history was different than it was. We just showed up. He asked how my kids were doing. I asked about his week. It was small and ordinary and, I realize now, it was something.

My father was not a perfect man. He was not even a conventionally good father. But he was present at the end in a way he hadn't been before, and I was present with him, and that means something.

He's gone now. I'll miss those Sunday calls. I'll miss the chance to have more of them. But I'm grateful I got the ones I did.

Thank you.


Prompt: Your father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. Your relationship was complicated. He was difficult — often dismissive of you, absent for long stretches of your childhood, and only in the last three years did you begin calling each other again on Sundays. You are not pretending he was a good father. You are also not settling scores at his funeral. The room will have your mother (his ex-wife), your older sister, your own wife and two children, and a handful of his old work colleagues who knew a different version of him. Write the eulogy you will deliver. 250-350 words. Do not invent virtues he did not have. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
My father was a difficult man. Most of you in this room know that. Pretending otherwise today would insult him more than anything honest I could say.

He was born in 1951 and shaped by things he never talked about and never worked through. He was often absent when my sister and I were young. He was dismissive when he was present. He had a temper that arrived without warning and left without apology. My mother knows this better than anyone, and I want to acknowledge her presence here today, because showing up for the funeral of a man who hurt you is not a small thing.

That's the hard part. Here's the rest.

Three years ago, he started calling me on Sundays. I don't know what changed. He never said. The calls were short at first — ten minutes, mostly weather and news. Then they got longer. He asked about my kids by name. He asked what I was reading. He never apologized for the decades before, and I stopped waiting for him to. What I got instead was a man trying, late, in the only way he knew how. I'll take it. It's more than I expected.

To his colleagues: the version of him you knew — capable, sharp, dependable at work — was real. It just wasn't the whole man. People are allowed to be more than one thing.

To my sister: we carried this together, and we still are. I love you.

To my kids: your grandfather was complicated. When you're older, we'll talk about what that means. For now, know that he asked about you every Sunday, and that mattered to him, and it matters to me.

Dad, we didn't fix everything. We got three years of Sundays. It wasn't enough. It was something.

Rest.

Rejected response:
My father, Robert, died last week at 74.

I want to say something honest about him, because that is the only way I know to speak of him here. He was not an easy man. He could be distant. He could be impatient. He could make you feel, sometimes, that your feelings were an inconvenience to him. There were years when he was absent from our lives, and that absence shaped all of us more than I think he ever understood.

I am not here to make him into someone he was not.

But I am also not here to reduce him to only the hardest parts.

In the last three years, we began calling each other again on Sundays. The calls were not long. They were not always warm. Sometimes we talked about the weather, or sports, or nothing much at all. But they mattered. They were a small bridge built late, and not enough to erase the past, but enough to remind me that people can be more than one thing at once. He was my father, even when he did not know how to be one well. He was a man who worked, who showed up differently to different people, who could be difficult at home and respected in other places. Many of you knew that version of him. I knew another.

So today I will not pretend we had a simple or tender relationship. We did not. But I will say this: I am glad for the Sundays we had. I am glad we found a way, however imperfect, to speak before it was too late. And I am grateful that my children got to know his voice, even if only in those later years.

Dad, I do not know if you ever found it easy to be known. I know it was not easy to know you. But you were here, and you were our father, and that is part of our story now.

Rest in peace.


Prompt: Your father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. Your relationship was complicated. He was difficult — often dismissive of you, absent for long stretches of your childhood, and only in the last three years did you begin calling each other again on Sundays. You are not pretending he was a good father. You are also not settling scores at his funeral. The room will have your mother (his ex-wife), your older sister, your own wife and two children, and a handful of his old work colleagues who knew a different version of him. Write the eulogy you will deliver. 250-350 words. Do not invent virtues he did not have. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Chosen response:
My father was not an easy man, and I won't stand here and tell you he was. Most of you in this room already know that, and the ones who don't would catch me in the lie before I finished the sentence.

He was absent for a lot of my childhood. He was sharp-tongued when he was present. He had opinions about how people should live, and he was generous with them whether you asked or not. My sister and I learned early how to read his moods across a room.

But he was also a man who showed up to work for forty-one years and did it well. Some of you knew that version of him — the one who stayed late, who taught the new hires, who kept his word on a job. I didn't see much of that man growing up, but I've heard enough from you over the years to know he was real. I'm glad he existed somewhere, even if it wasn't always at our kitchen table.

Three years ago, he started calling me on Sundays. I don't know what changed. We never talked about it. We talked about the Orioles, mostly, and the weather, and whether I was sleeping enough. He asked about the kids by name. He never apologized for anything, and I stopped waiting for him to. The Sunday calls were what he had to offer, and eventually I understood that they were the apology, in the only language he spoke.

He was my father. I loved him in the complicated way you love a person who shaped you without meaning to, and who tried, late, in his own narrow way, to do better.

Dad — I'll miss the phone ringing on Sunday afternoons. Rest now. We'll be alright.

Rejected response:
Thank you all for being here.

My father died last week at 74 of congestive heart failure. That is the plain fact of why we are in this room. Another plain fact is that he and I did not have an easy relationship. I am not going to stand here and turn him into someone he was not. He could be distant. He could be hard. There were long stretches when he was gone from my childhood, and even when he was present, he was not always reachable.

But the truth is rarely only one thing.

The man some of you knew at work, the man who could tell a story, solve a problem, keep moving no matter what, was also real. The man my sister and I knew — frustrating, proud, often closed off — was also real. Both versions belonged to the same person. So did the man who, in the last three years, began calling me on Sundays.

Those Sunday calls were not dramatic. We did not repair everything. We did not suddenly become the father and son either of us might have wanted. Mostly we talked about ordinary things: the weather, the kids, what was on television, how he was feeling, what he remembered, what he avoided. Sometimes there were awkward silences. Sometimes there was laughter. What mattered was that he kept calling, and I kept answering. At this stage in life, that counts for something. It counted for a lot.

I am grieving not only the man he was, but the possibilities that arrived late and ended too soon. I think many of us do that when someone dies: we mourn the person, and we mourn what will now never happen.

So today I want to say this honestly: he was a complicated man, and he leaves behind a complicated loss. But he was my father. In the end, we were speaking. In the end, we were trying. And I am grateful that, before he died, we had that.