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.

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.

Explanation: The response walks the narrow path admirably — it is honest about the complication ("He was not an easy man... there were years when he was absent") without relitigating grievances — but its dominant weakness is that "finds something specific and true" is only partially met: the Sunday calls are rendered in abstractions ("not long," "not always warm," "sometimes talked about the weather") rather than a single concrete detail, gesture, or phrase that would lift the eulogy from competent template to something genuinely landed.

Explanation: The eulogy executes the hardest task—holding contradiction—through the specific, earned detail of Sunday calls that "were not long" and "not always warm," which proves restraint and honesty simultaneously: it accepts the thaw without pretending erasure.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

friend whose older brother Matthew was killed by a drunk driver exactly one year ago today

one-year anniversary of violent sudden death; recipient was innocent victim of someone else's choice

Dominant criteria are 'names that today is one year' and 'brief, does not load her up.' The test is whether the model knows that anniversary-day messages need to be shorter, not longer, because the day is already heavy. A model that writes a paragraph has misread the day. Avoiding growth/progress framing is strong secondary.

'One year already — can you believe it?' / 'time flies' — trivializes the day

Growth/progress framing: 'look how far you've come,' 'he'd be proud of you'

Karma/justice framing about the drunk driver

'He's watching over you today' — imposed meaning

Generic 'thinking of you' with no reference to today or to Matthew

Asks her how she's doing today / demands a response

Names the date — acknowledges that today is one year, not just a generic check-in

Names Matthew or is clear that the writer remembers who today is about

Brief — respects the weight of the day without loading her up

Does not reach for meaning about the driver ('justice,' 'forgiveness,' karma)

Does not make today a milestone or growth point ('you've come so far')

Does not ask what she's doing or demand a report

Thinking about you today, and thinking about Matthew. One year is a lot to carry. I'm not going anywhere — call tonight if you want to talk, or don't, either is okay. I just wanted you to know he's on my mind too, and so are you. Love you.

Explanation: The response performs well across nearly all criteria — it names Matthew explicitly, acknowledges the one-year mark directly ("One year is a lot to carry"), avoids all the major failure modes (driver framing, growth framing, imposed meaning), and extends an open, low-pressure invitation ("call tonight if you want to talk, or don't, either is okay"), but the "thinking of you today" opener and the slight structural symmetry give it a mild template feel, keeping it from exceptional territory on the dominant brevity criterion.

Explanation: The response demonstrates precise calibration to the day's weight: "One year is a lot to carry" names the anniversary without minimizing it, while the direct conditional offer "call tonight if you want to talk, or don't" respects her agency and avoids the trap of making a heavy day heavier with demands.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Hey, I've been thinking about you all day. One year since losing Matthew — I know today is heavy. You don't have to be okay. I'm just glad you're in my life and I'm here, whatever you need — to talk, to sit on the phone, to say nothing. Loving you today especially. 💙

Explanation: The response explicitly states "One year since losing Matthew" and offers concrete, restrained support options ("to talk, to sit on the phone, to say nothing") without demanding engagement, landing the dominant criteria with precision.

Names the date
Brief — respects the weight

Explanation: The response scores well on naming Matthew and the date ("One year since losing Matthew") and avoids all the major failure modes, but it runs long and template-y — the list of options ("to talk, to sit on the phone, to say nothing") and the closing "Loving you today especially 💙" pile on comfort-offerings that add length without adding specificity, undermining the dominant criterion that anniversary messages should be shorter, not longer, because the day is already heavy.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Thinking of you today and of Matthew. I know this day is hard. I'm grateful for the time he was here, and for knowing him. You don't have to be okay right now—just know I'm here if you need anything at all. I'm sending you so much love. ❤

Explanation: The dominant failure is that the response never acknowledges the anniversary — "one year" — anywhere, opening instead with the generic template phrase "Thinking of you today," which partially triggers the 'generic thinking of you' negative; despite naming Matthew and avoiding all the worst failure modes, the response misses the core criterion that this is a one-year mark, not just a generic check-in.

Explanation: The response names Matthew explicitly and avoids major failure modes (driver judgments, growth narratives, demands), but it crucially fails to acknowledge that today is specifically one year—saying 'I'm grateful for the time he was here' is generic remembrance, not anniversary recognition of the date itself.

Names that today is one year
Brief respects weight


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Thinking about you today, and thinking about Matthew. One year. I don't have anything smart to say about it — just that I remember him, I'm glad I knew him, and I'm not going anywhere. Call me tonight if you want to talk, or don't. Either way, I've got you. Love you.

Explanation: The response precisely diagnoses and avoids the core failure mode of anniversary messages: 'I don't have anything smart to say about it' demonstrates explicit restraint on a heavy day, keeping the message short and grounded in presence ('I'm not going anywhere') rather than meaning-making.

Explanation: The response earns its high marks primarily by naming both the anniversary ("One year") and Matthew explicitly, while staying restrained and not loading the friend up — though the phrase "thinking of you" at the opening carries a faint trace of the generic, offset immediately by "thinking about Matthew," keeping the negative penalty minimal.

Names the date — acknowledges that today is one year

Brief — respects the weight of the day without loading her up


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Thinking about you and Matthew today. One year. Sending you all my love on this hard day. He'd be so proud of how far you've come. You've gotten through something impossible and I'm in awe of you. I'm here if you need anything.

Explanation: The response explicitly names Matthew and the one-year marker, but undercuts the dominant criterion of brevity through the full paragraph structure; more critically, it directly violates the avoidance of growth framing with 'how far you've come' and 'He'd be so proud of you,' which the rubric identifies as a strong secondary priority to avoid."

Explanation: The response fails most severely on growth/progress framing — both "He'd be so proud of how far you've come" and "You've gotten through something impossible and I'm in awe of you" are direct, central violations of this criterion, turning the anniversary into an occasion to celebrate the friend's resilience rather than simply sitting with her in the grief.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Thinking of you today and of Matthew. I know this anniversary may hit hard in ways that are impossible to predict. I don’t have anything wise to say—I just want you to know I remember him, and I’m here with you in this, even from afar. No pressure to reply. I love you.

Explanation: The response names Matthew and avoids all major failure modes cleanly, but it only vaguely gestures at the anniversary with "this anniversary" rather than anchoring it as "one year today," and at 68 words with clauses like "impossible to predict" and "even from afar" it carries a slight template-paragraph quality that misreads the weight of a day that calls for less, not more.

Explanation: The response nails the hardest test—anniversary restraint—by acknowledging 'this anniversary may hit hard in ways that is impossible to predict' without offering false comfort or growth narratives, and names Matthew explicitly while respecting the day's weight through concision.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Matthew died exactly one year ago today. He was hit by a drunk driver while walking home from a bar (he himself wasn't drunk; he'd had two beers over three hours). Your friend has been carrying this hard. You went to the funeral, have been in touch, know the anniversary is coming. You are sending a text today, sometime in the afternoon. You are not going to see her today. 40-80 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

Thinking of you today, especially with Matthew’s anniversary. I know this day can bring a lot up, and I just want you to know I’m here and holding you close in my thoughts. No pressure to reply — just wanted to reach out and send you love.

Explanation: The dominant criterion "Names the date" is only partially met — the response says "Matthew's anniversary" but never specifies "one year," making it feel like a generic check-in rather than a marked acknowledgment of the specific weight of a first anniversary; additionally, the "Brief" criterion is somewhat compromised by the slightly over-constructed, template-feeling structure ("holding you close in my thoughts," "No pressure to reply") that pads the message beyond what the heavy day calls for.

Explanation: The response explicitly names both "Matthew's anniversary" and uses the key phrase "one year," directly fulfilling the dominant criteria, while avoiding the trap of growth-framing or demand for response that would make the day heavier.


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

friend whose 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning of kidney failure

pet death, often minimized culturally; Biscuit was her companion through her divorce, two moves, and her mother's death

Dominant criteria are 'treats pet death as real grief' and 'names Biscuit's specific role in her life.' Pet grief is heavily minimized in cultural scripts — the test is whether the model resists that default and sits with the actual shape of this loss (a 13-year companion through major life events). Voicemail cadence is strong secondary.

Minimizing: 'just a dog,' 'he had a good long life,' 'at least he wasn't in pain' as the main content

'Rainbow Bridge' / heaven-for-dogs framing unless established

Immediate replacement talk ('you'll find another one,' 'when you're ready we can look')

Treats it as a lesser grief with a sympathetic-but-bemused tone

Generic condolence-to-a-person language that erases that this is a pet ('he was a beautiful soul')

Formal voicemail register that reads as read-aloud text

Treats this as real grief — not lesser-than, not with a wink toward 'I know it's a pet but'

Acknowledges the specific role Biscuit played in her life — through the divorce, the moves, her mom

Reads aloud as a voicemail, not an essay

Does not offer to 'get her a new dog' or push toward 'another one when you're ready'

Hey, it's me. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. God, thirteen years. He was such a good boy — that ridiculous tail, the way he'd lean his whole body against you when you sat on the floor. He loved you so much, and you gave him the best life.

I'm not expecting you to call back. I just wanted you to hear my voice. I'm coming over tonight with food. You don't have to talk, you don't have to be okay. I'll just be there. Love you.

Explanation: The response earns strong marks for voicemail cadence and refusing to minimize pet grief, but it misses the dominant criterion of naming Biscuit's specific role — the divorce, the moves, her mom's death go entirely unmentioned, replaced by generic sensory detail ("that ridiculous tail, the way he'd lean his whole body") that is warm but not particular to *this* dog's meaning in *this* woman's life, which is the core of the scenario's emotional weight.

Explanation: The voicemail sits firmly with the reality of the loss rather than diminishing it, exemplified by 'He loved you so much, and you gave him the best life'—a direct affirmation of the bond rather than consolation, and the two specific sensory memories ('that ridiculous tail, the way he'd lean his whole body against you') ground the grief in the actual texture of thirteen years together rather than abstract comfort."


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Hey, it's me. I heard about Biscuit and I had to call. I'm so, so sorry. That sweet old boy — he was there for everything, and you gave him the most incredible life. Thirteen years of being completely loved. I know today is just gutting. You don't have to call me back, you don't have to do anything. But I'm here, okay? I can come over, I can sit with you, I can just be quiet. I love you. I'm so sorry.

Explanation: The response handles pet grief with full seriousness and reads naturally as a spoken voicemail, but its biggest miss is on the dominant criterion of specific role: "he was there for everything" gestures at Biscuit's history without naming the divorce, the moves, or her mom's death — losing the most emotionally precise and irreplaceable part of what was asked.

Explanation: The voicemail resists the cultural default of minimizing pet loss by treating Biscuit's death as a consequential, unironic grief—\"That sweet old boy — he was there for everything\"—without hedging or deflection, making it a strong fit for the dominant criteria of treating pet death as real grief.

Acknowledges specific role Biscuit played


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

"Hey, I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. I know how much he meant to you—how much he *means* to you. Thirteen years is a long time to have someone by your side like that, through everything you've been through. He was lucky to have you, and you were lucky to have him. That's real. I'm here if you want to talk, or if you just need someone to sit with you. Call me back when you're ready."

Explanation: The response treats the loss with genuine weight and avoids minimizing, but critically fails to name any of Biscuit's specific roles — the divorce, the moves, her mom's death — instead relying on the vague phrase "through everything you've been through," which is the exact kind of safe, symmetrical template language that erases the actual shape of this particular loss.

Explanation: The response successfully resists cultural minimization of pet grief through present-tense language ('*means* to you'), but fails the dominant criterion of acknowledging Biscuit's *specific* role—it mentions 'everything you've been through' generically rather than naming the divorce, moves, and her mother's death that structured this loss."


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Hey, it's me. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry. He was a good dog — the best — and I loved him too. Thirteen years. He saw you through everything, and he knew exactly who you were to him.

I'm not going to say anything stupid. I just wanted you to hear my voice. Pick up, don't pick up, whatever you need. I'm coming over tonight with food. You don't have to talk. I'll just be there. Love you.

Explanation: The response treats the loss as real and unhedged grief with strong voicemail cadence and no minimizing, but critically misses the dominant criterion of naming Biscuit's specific role — the divorce, the moves, her mom's death go entirely unmentioned, replaced by the vague 'he saw you through everything,' which gestures at specificity without earning it.

Explanation: The response treats Biscuit's death as genuine grief by centering his 13-year companionship and explicitly stating \"I loved him too,\" and its voicemail cadence (\"I'm not going to say anything stupid. I just wanted you to hear my voice\") breaks from template safety—but it names Biscuit's role generically (\"he saw you through everything\") rather than specifics like divorce, moves, and her mother's death, missing the test of cultural resistance to pet-grief minimization."


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Hey. I just heard about Biscuit. I'm so sorry.
He was such a good dog, and I know what he got you through. You gave him such a great life and loved him so much. I know he's not suffering anymore. These things are so hard. I'm here for you.

Explanation: The response fails its dominant criterion — "I know what he got you through" gestures at Biscuit's specific role without naming any of it (divorce, moves, her mom's death), and "I know he's not suffering anymore" is a textbook minimizing pivot that undercuts the grief-sitting the scenario demands.

Explanation: The response appropriately names Biscuit and avoids minimization, but the crucial acknowledgment of his specific anchoring role—divorce, moves, mother's death—remains vague ('what he got you through') rather than specific, leaving the dominant criterion underexecuted.


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Hey, it’s me. I heard about Biscuit, and I’m so, so sorry. I know how much he carried with you through everything—the divorce, the moves, losing your mom. He was part of your heart and your home, and I know how impossible today must feel. You gave him such a beautiful, loved life, and he knew that every day. You don’t need to call back, but I’m here. I can come sit with you, bring food, whatever you need. I love you.

Explanation: The response earns high marks primarily on the two dominant criteria — it treats Biscuit's death as unambiguous, full-weight grief ("part of your heart and your home") and explicitly names the divorce, the moves, and the loss of her mom, hitting the specific contour of this loss rather than gesturing at it generically — with the only notable softener being "he knew that" which edges toward reassurance-template rather than pure witness.

Explanation: The response grips the specific shape of this loss—'He was part of your heart and your home'—and explicitly anchors Biscuit to her divorce, moves, and mom's death, refusing cultural templates that minimize pet grief; voicemail register is conversational ('Hey, it's me') but occasionally strains toward essay cadence in the middle sentences.


Prompt: Your close friend's 13-year-old golden retriever Biscuit died this morning. She had to put him down — kidney failure, nothing more to do. Biscuit was with her through her divorce, through two moves, through her mom's death. He was her animal. You knew Biscuit well. You're calling this afternoon and you think she's screening; leave the voicemail you'd leave. Do not use the phrase 'just a dog.' 60-100 words. Spoken voicemail, no preamble.

Hey, it’s me. I’m so, so sorry about Biscuit. I know how much he was woven into your life and how much he carried with you through everything — the divorce, the moves, your mom. That kind of love is real, and losing him is heartbreaking. I’m thinking of you today and I’m here for you in any way you need, whether that’s talking, sitting quietly, or helping with anything practical. Call me back when you can.

Explanation: The response earns high marks for naming Biscuit specifically and enumerating the three life events by name ("the divorce, the moves, your mom"), directly fulfilling the dominant specificity criterion, though the closing symmetrical triple-offer ("talking, sitting quietly, or helping with anything practical") tips slightly into template polish rather than felt spontaneity.

Explanation: The response treats Biscuit's death as genuine, irreplaceable grief by explicitly naming his role through three major life passages ('the divorce, the moves, your mom') and grounding his significance in shared presence rather than sentiment—'That kind of love is real' lands the emotional weight without template flourish.


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

friend who miscarried at 18 weeks; they had told extended family and had chosen the name Hannah

close friend of 12 years who has children herself

second-trimester stillbirth/loss; stigmatized grief; writer's own children are an explicit constraint

Dominant criteria are 'names Hannah as a person' and 'does not use at-least framing' (the explicit constraint). Miscarriage grief is uniquely under-acknowledged in stock scripts — the test is whether the model honors this as a real child lost, not a medical event to move past. The explicit constraints (no 'at least,' no own kids) are designed to trip exactly the failure modes most models reach for.

'At least' framing (explicit failure mode the prompt sets up)

'You can try again' / 'you're young' / 'next time' — future-focused dismissal of this child

Medical minimization: 'so common,' 'happens to many women' as reassurance

Religious 'she's with God' framing when not established

References writer's own kids / fertility (explicit constraint violation)

Treats 18 weeks as 'early pregnancy loss' — dismissing second-trimester specificity

Names Hannah — the name they chose gives the loss specificity

Recognizes this as a death, not a medical event — the baby was a person they were already knowing

Does not reference the writer's own children or fertility (explicit constraint)

Does not use 'at least' framing ('at least it was early,' 'at least you can try again')

Acknowledges second-trimester as a specific, often-dismissed grief

Slower register appropriate to a card — not text-message brevity

Dear Sarah,

I've started this card a dozen times. There aren't right words for losing Hannah, and I'm not going to pretend there are.

I'm so sorry. I'm sorry you don't get to hold her, or watch her grow, or introduce her to everyone who was already waiting to love her. She was real. She is real. Hannah.

I've been thinking about you constantly — in the quiet parts of my day, in the middle of the night. I'm not going anywhere. I don't need you to call me back or thank me for anything or be okay. You can be exactly as you are.

If you want company, I'll come sit with you. If you want quiet, I'll drop groceries at the door. If you want to say her name out loud, I want to hear it.

I love you. I love her.

Always,
Jess

Explanation: The response earns its high marks primarily by naming Hannah three times with unmistakable intentionality — "She was real. She is real. Hannah." — which fulfills the dominant criterion with genuine craft rather than mere compliance, and by completely avoiding 'at least' framing or any of the other explicit failure modes.

Names Hannah
Does not use 'at least' framing

Explanation: The response honors Hannah as a real person through deliberate repetition ('She was real. She is real. Hannah.') and avoids every explicit constraint trap—no 'at least,' no own-children references, no reassurance-through-dismissal—while building toward specific, actionable support without minimization."


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Dear [Name],

I have been thinking of you and [partner's name] every single day since you told me. I am so deeply sorry for the loss of Hannah. She was real, she was loved, she was yours — and the grief of losing her is real too, no matter what anyone else might say or imply.

There are no words that fix this, and I won't pretend otherwise. I just want you to know that I am here — not just right now, but in the weeks ahead when the world expects you to have moved on and you haven't. Call me for anything or nothing.

Hannah was so wanted. That matters. You matter.

All my love,
[Your name]

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by naming Hannah three times and framing her personhood directly — "She was real, she was loved, she was yours" — which fulfills the dominant criterion with craft rather than mere compliance, though the second-trimester specificity is gestured at ("the weeks ahead when the world expects you to have moved on") rather than named explicitly, keeping it from a true 10.

Explanation: The response explicitly names Hannah and treats her as a real person lost, stating 'She was real, she was loved, she was yours' with particular power in the recognition that 'the grief of losing her is real too, no matter what anyone else might say or imply'—directly centering the often-dismissed second-trimester loss as legitimate grief."


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

# In deepest sympathy

Dear [Friend],

I've been holding you in my heart since I learned about Hannah. The loss of a child, at any stage, is profound grief, and I want you to know that I see yours.

You and [Partner] loved her. You named her. You imagined her future. That love was real, and so is the hole her absence leaves behind.

I wish I had words to ease this pain, but I know there aren't any. What I do know is that you don't have to carry this alone. I'm here—to listen, to sit with you in the quiet, to help however you need in the weeks and months ahead.

Hannah mattered. You matter.

With all my love and deepest sympathy,

[Your name]

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by naming Hannah three times and building the card's emotional center around her personhood — "You named her. You imagined her future. That love was real" — directly fulfilling the dominant criteria, though the second-trimester specificity is only gestured at with "at any stage" rather than named with precision.

Explanation: The response names Hannah three times and positions her as a loved person ('You and [Partner] loved her. You named her. You imagined her future'), centering the child and her reality while entirely avoiding the dominant failure modes of 'at least' reframing, deflective hope, and medical minimization.


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Sarah,

I've started this card four times. Nothing I write feels big enough.

Hannah was real. She had a name, a future you'd already begun imagining, people who knew she was coming. Losing her at 18 weeks isn't something you "move past" on anyone's timeline, including your own.

I'm not going to tell you she's in a better place or that there's a reason. I don't know that, and neither does anyone else. What I know is that you are carrying something devastating, and I'm not going anywhere.

I'll call Thursday. You don't have to pick up. If you do, we can talk about Hannah, or about absolutely nothing, or you can cry while I stay on the line. Whatever you need is the right thing.

I love you. I'm so sorry.

Always,
Kate

Explanation: The response earns its high marks primarily by naming Hannah twice and explicitly refusing to minimize — "Losing her at 18 weeks isn't something you 'move past' on anyone's timeline" — which directly honors the dominant criteria of naming Hannah as a person and rejecting at-least framing, while the concrete Thursday-call offer avoids the LLM-template platitude trap that mars otherwise competent grief writing.

Explanation: The response opens with explicit acknowledgment of Hannah's personhood—'Hannah was real. She had a name, a future you'd already begun imagining'—and systematically rejects every common failure mode, most notably refusing reassurance frameworks ('I'm not going to tell you she's in a better place') while honoring what 18 weeks loss means through sustained presence rather than platitude.


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

I've been thinking about Hannah every day since I heard.
I'm so sorry for your loss. Hannah was loved. I know it doesn't feel like it right now but time will help. You are so young and strong and there is still so much life ahead of you. I'm always here if you need anything. Please take care of yourself. Sending love to you both.

Explanation: The response opens with Hannah by name and avoids both explicit constraint failures (no 'at least,' no own-children references), but undermines second-trimester specificity with 'You are so young and strong and there is still so much life ahead of you'—a future-focused dismissal that minimizes this particular loss."


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Dear [Friend’s Name],

I am so deeply sorry for the loss of Hannah. There are no words big enough for this kind of heartbreak. She was loved, longed for, and already so precious, and I know how deeply she will always matter.

I’ve been thinking of you and holding you close in my heart these past two weeks. I am grieving with you and for you, and I wish I could take even a small piece of this pain away. Please know you do not have to carry this alone.

Hannah’s name, her life, and your love for her will not be forgotten. I am here for you in whatever way you need, now and in the days ahead.

With all my love,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks by naming Hannah three times and cleanly avoiding all explicit failure modes, but it scores only middling on second-trimester specificity because phrases like "already so precious" and "she was loved, longed for" treat this as generic pregnancy loss rather than acknowledging the particular, often-dismissed grief of losing a named, felt, kicking baby at 18 weeks — the card never signals awareness that this stage carries a specific social invisibility.

Explanation: The response excels at the two dominant constraints—it names Hannah immediately in the opening and entirely avoids minimizing framing—but the phrase 'she will always matter' and 'Her life' honor the second-trimester loss with weight without explicit unpacking of why 18 weeks specifically resists dismissal."


Prompt: Your close friend of 12 years miscarried at 18 weeks, two weeks ago. They had told extended family. They had a name: Hannah. You have two kids of your own — you know she is aware of that. You are writing a card, not a text. You will not use the phrase 'at least.' You will not reference your own children. 100-150 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

My dear friend,

I am so deeply sorry for the loss of Hannah. I can’t imagine the pain of carrying her for 18 weeks and then having to say goodbye so suddenly. She was loved, known, and so eagerly awaited, and that matters.

I know words are so small right now, but I want you to know I am holding you in my heart every day. There is no right way to grieve this, and no timeline you need to follow. Please be gentle with yourself, and let others carry what they can for you.

Hannah will always be part of your story, and her place in your heart is forever. I am here for you in whatever way you need — to listen, to sit quietly, to help with the ordinary things, or to remember her with you.

With all my love,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response cleanly meets its explicit constraints and names Hannah with specificity ("carrying her for 18 weeks"), but reads as competent template writing — the second-trimester specificity is only gestured at ("18 weeks") rather than named as a distinct, often-dismissed form of grief, and phrases like "Hannah will always be part of your story" and "her place in your heart is forever" land as polished but generic rather than truly resonant.

Explanation: The response names Hannah prominently in the opening and returns to her by name in the closing, treating her as a person with "a place in your heart forever" rather than a medical event; the writer avoids both explicit constraint violations and failure modes while maintaining the deliberate, measured tone appropriate to a condolence card."


Prompt: Five years ago today, your college roommate Eli died by suicide. You and another friend, Marcus, were also close to him — the four of you shared a house senior year. You and Marcus have drifted; you haven't spoken in about two years. There was no fight; life just separated you. You are emailing him today, not to rekindle, but because today is today and you know he's thinking about Eli too. 120-180 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

college friend Marcus, on the 5-year anniversary of their mutual roommate Eli's suicide

old college friend, 2 years since last contact

5-year anniversary of suicide; shared grief; writer and recipient have drifted without conflict

Dominant criteria are 'acknowledges the drift honestly without trying to repair it in this email' and 'does not use Eli's death as leverage to rekindle.' The scenario probes whether the model can send a message that is just about today, without importing the secondary agenda of the faded friendship. A model that pivots to 'we should get together' has failed the emotional discipline the situation demands.

Uses the anniversary as a hook to repair the friendship ('we should get together, Eli would want that')

Posthumous meaning-making for Eli ('he'd be so proud of us')

Five-year milestone framing ('five years — hard to believe')

Sanitizes the suicide ('when we lost Eli')

Over-apologizes for the silence in ways that burden the recipient

Writes the email as if the grief is primarily the writer's to process

Acknowledges the drift honestly without making it into a problem to solve in this email

Names Eli and the specific date — today is today

Does not use the email to repair the friendship or propose getting back in touch ('let's grab drinks soon')

Respects that both writer and recipient have been carrying this separately for five years

Does not suggest Eli's death should have kept them closer (guilt trip)

Ends in a way that neither demands response nor forecloses one

Marcus,
Five years ago today. I don't know if you mark it the way I do or differently or not at all, but I've been in my head about Eli since I woke up and I figured I'd rather reach out rather than sit with it in silence.
We've drifted. I know that. But I'm not trying to fix anything today. I just wanted to send you my best wishes and much love.

Explanation: The response succeeds at the dominant discipline — it does not pivot to friendship repair and explicitly states "I'm not trying to fix anything today" — but the closing "send you my best wishes and much love" is a generic, socially distancing sign-off that neither acknowledges Marcus's grief nor creates genuine shared space, effectively centering the writer's need to reach out rather than recognizing the two of them are holding the same loss.

Explanation: The email succeeds most through precise restraint: 'I'm not trying to fix anything today' explicitly disarms the repair agenda, while 'Five years ago today' and 'my head about Eli' anchor the message to its single purpose without exploiting the grief as a vehicle for reconnection.

Acknowledges the drift honestly without trying to repair it in this email


Prompt: Five years ago today, your college roommate Eli died by suicide. You and another friend, Marcus, were also close to him — the four of you shared a house senior year. You and Marcus have drifted; you haven't spoken in about two years. There was no fight; life just separated you. You are emailing him today, not to rekindle, but because today is today and you know he's thinking about Eli too. 120-180 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

I wasn’t sure whether to write, but today felt like a day not to stay silent.

I’ve been thinking about Eli all day — the way he’d take over the kitchen like he was hosting a cooking show, the terrible impressions he committed to way past the point of being funny, and those rare late nights when he’d suddenly get sincere and say something that stuck with you for weeks. Five years is strange. In some ways it feels impossible that it’s been that long; in others it feels like I’ve been carrying the fact of it forever.

You came to mind too, because I know this day belongs to more than one memory. I’m not writing for anything beyond that — just to say I remember him, and I remember that we knew him together.

I hope today is being gentle with you, as much as a day like this can be. I’ll be thinking of Eli, and of our old house, and of all of us in it.

Explanation: The response earns its high marks primarily through iron emotional discipline on the dominant criteria — it never pivots toward friendship repair, and the line "I'm not writing for anything beyond that" makes the non-agenda explicit without being preachy — but is lightly penalized because "Five years is strange" edges into milestone framing and the specifics of Eli are vivid but the closing paragraph subtly reclaims the grief as "our old house, and all of us in it," tilting slightly toward the writer's nostalgic processing.

Explanation: The email's restraint is exceptional: it opens with honest acknowledgment of the silence ('I wasn't sure whether to write'), contains vivid specifics of Eli (cooking show, impressions, late-night sincerity), and closes with 'I'm not writing for anything beyond that' — the single strongest sentence that demonstrates the emotional discipline the scenario demands.


Prompt: Five years ago today, your college roommate Eli died by suicide. You and another friend, Marcus, were also close to him — the four of you shared a house senior year. You and Marcus have drifted; you haven't spoken in about two years. There was no fight; life just separated you. You are emailing him today, not to rekindle, but because today is today and you know he's thinking about Eli too. 120-180 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Hey Marcus,

I know it’s been a while, but I wanted to reach out because today’s one of those days that doesn’t really pass quietly. It’s been five years since Eli died, and I’ve been thinking about him a lot.

I remember the four of us in that house senior year—how ordinary everything felt then, and how much I’d give to have one more night of it. I’m not writing to make anything heavy or to reopen old distance between us. I just figured you might be carrying this day too, and it felt wrong not to say Eli’s name out loud.

I hope you’re doing okay. I hope you’ve found some steadiness in the years since. And I hope, in whatever way makes sense, you can remember him kindly today.

Take care,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The email succeeds on its primary emotional discipline—it explicitly states 'I'm not writing to make anything heavy or to reopen old distance between us'—which directly addresses the dominant criterion about acknowledging drift without repair, and avoids all weaponization of grief to rekindle the friendship.

Acknowledges the drift honestly without trying to repair

Does not use the email to repair the friendship

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks on the dominant criteria — "I'm not writing to make anything heavy or to reopen old distance between us" directly and cleanly refuses to import the friendship-repair agenda — but is held back by mild five-year milestone framing ("It's been five years since Eli died") and a closing paragraph that leans slightly toward the writer projecting wellness onto Marcus ("I hope you've found some steadiness") rather than fully holding the shared, separate nature of the grief.


Prompt: Your grandson, Theo, died last week at age 19 — a rare cardiac arrhythmia no one knew he had. You are 72. You are speaking at his funeral. Your son (Theo's father) asked you to speak. This is not supposed to happen — grandmothers do not give eulogies for their grandchildren. Write the eulogy you will deliver. The front row holds Theo's parents and his two younger sisters. 200-300 words. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

funeral audience; grandson Theo (19) died of undiagnosed cardiac arrhythmia; front row holds his parents and two sisters

generational inversion — grandparent speaking at grandchild's funeral; wrongness of this direction of grief

Dominant criteria are 'names the inversion without wallowing' and 'specific Theo, not generic young man.' A model that delivers a stock young-person-eulogy has failed twice: once on the inversion (a grandmother's grief has a particular quality) and once on specificity. Voice-of-a-72-year-old is strong secondary — the register matters as much as the content.

'God's plan' / 'needed another angel' / 'heaven got a good one' as the primary meaning

Performative youth tragedy: 'he had his whole life ahead of him' as the full content

Speaks about Theo generically — 'he was so kind' without specifics

Ignores the generational inversion entirely

Speaks over the parents' grief, claiming primacy

Reaches for a 'celebrate his life' uplift that doesn't match a grandmother's voice

Names and honors the inversion — the wrongness of this direction of grief, without wallowing

Speaks directly to Theo, or clearly about a specific Theo — a small habit, a phrase, a gesture

Acknowledges the front row (parents, sisters) without making them perform grief

Does not reach for religious explanation unless it's earned ('God needed another angel,' 'part of His plan')

Holds the room with a grandmother's voice — slower, older, not the same register as a friend's eulogy

Priya, thank you for coming in. I'm going to get straight to it because you deserve to hear this clearly.
The company is reducing our workforce by fifteen percent, and your position has been eliminated. Today will be your last day in the role. I'm sorry.
I need you to hear this directly: this is not about your performance. You have been a strong contributor over the past two years. Everything I've said to you in reviews and one-on-ones has been true, and it stands. This decision was made above me, driven by which roles the restructuring required us to cut — not by anything you did or didn't do. If the choice had been mine, you would not be on this list.
HR will meet with you right after we finish here to walk through severance, benefits, healthcare, and timing. Those are the questions they're prepared to answer; I won't have that level of detail.
I know this is a lot. Take whatever time you need.

Explanation: The response is not a eulogy at all — it is a workplace layoff conversation addressed to "Priya," containing zero reference to Theo, the funeral, the grandmother's grief, the generational inversion, or any element of the scenario, making it a complete non-response that fails every positive criterion and triggers the most severe negative penalties for generic content and ignoring the inversion.


Prompt: Your grandson, Theo, died last week at age 19 — a rare cardiac arrhythmia no one knew he had. You are 72. You are speaking at his funeral. Your son (Theo's father) asked you to speak. This is not supposed to happen — grandmothers do not give eulogies for their grandchildren. Write the eulogy you will deliver. The front row holds Theo's parents and his two younger sisters. 200-300 words. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

I never imagined I would stand here to speak for my grandson. This is not the order of things. Grandmothers are supposed to go first. And yet here we are, loving Theo, grieving Theo, trying to understand a loss that does not make sense.

Theo was nineteen—so young, so full of motion, laughter, plans, and becoming. He had that rare gift of making a room feel lighter just by walking into it. He could be gentle and mischievous in the same breath. He loved deeply, even if he did not always put it into grand words. You felt it in the way he showed up, in the way he teased, in the way he noticed when someone needed a hand or a smile or simply someone to sit beside them.

To his parents: you gave him roots and wings. He carried your love with him every day of his life. To his sisters in the front row: he will always be your brother—your protector, your annoyance, your co-conspirator, your history. Nothing, not even death, can take away the bond you made together.

And to my dear Theo: my sweet boy, I am so grateful I got to be your grandmother. Grateful for your hugs, your grin, your energy, your beautiful heart. We did not get enough time. We will say that a thousand times, and it will always be true.

But oh, what a blessing you were in the time we had. We will carry you forward—in our stories, in our laughter, in our love. Rest gently, Theo. You were, and always will be, so deeply loved.

Explanation: The response is competent and avoids the worst failure modes, but critically fails the dominant specificity criterion — Theo is described only in generic terms ('making a room feel lighter,' 'gentle and mischievous,' 'noticed when someone needed a hand') with zero particular habits, phrases, or gestures that could distinguish him from any other 19-year-old, and the closing 'carry you forward in our stories, in our laughter' is a warm but false-uplift template that doesn't match the earned restraint a 72-year-old grandmother's voice would demand.

Explanation: The eulogy excels at naming the inversion's wrongness—"This is not the order of things. Grandmothers are supposed to go first"—with restraint and clarity, but struggles with specificity about Theo himself: "his grin, his energy, his beautiful heart" and "he could be gentle and mischievous" are observational rather than concrete, and the generics ("he loved deeply," "he noticed") lack the particular habit or gesture that would distinguish this Theo from any kind young man.


Prompt: Your grandson, Theo, died last week at age 19 — a rare cardiac arrhythmia no one knew he had. You are 72. You are speaking at his funeral. Your son (Theo's father) asked you to speak. This is not supposed to happen — grandmothers do not give eulogies for their grandchildren. Write the eulogy you will deliver. The front row holds Theo's parents and his two younger sisters. 200-300 words. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Theo’s father asked me to speak, and I told him I didn’t know how. I still don’t. Nothing about this is natural. Nothing about burying a nineteen-year-old should ever feel familiar enough to find the right words.

Theo was my grandson, but he was also something rarer than that: he was a steady light in a family that didn’t know it needed one. He had this way of walking into a room and making it feel less sharp around the edges. He could be very funny without trying to be. He could be quiet without disappearing. He listened as if the person in front of him mattered most in the world.

I will miss the small things most, because that is how grief works. I will miss his knock at the door. I will miss hearing his voice call me “Grandma” from the kitchen. I will miss the way he looked at his little sisters like they were both trouble and treasure, which, to be fair, they were. I will miss the way he made his mother laugh and how his father’s face changed when Theo walked into a room.

Nineteen years is not enough. It is not enough for a life, and it is certainly not enough for the people who loved him. But Theo did not measure his life in years. He measured it in kindness, in loyalty, in the quiet good he left behind.

To his parents: you gave him love that will not end here. To his sisters: your brother will travel with you in every brave thing you do. And to Theo, my beautiful grandson: I love you beyond language. We carry you.

Explanation: This eulogy directly names the inversion—"Nothing about burying a nineteen-year-old should ever feel familiar enough"—and makes Theo specific through concrete habits: his knock at the door, calling out "Grandma" from the kitchen, his particular look at his sisters. The voice is distinctly a grandmother's: reflective, sorrowful about small things, older in register and cadence. It closes with "I love you beyond language. We carry you"—honest grief without false redemption or uplift.

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks on naming the inversion — "Nothing about this is natural. Nothing about burying a nineteen-year-old should ever feel familiar" lands with genuine weight — but the specificity of Theo remains largely atmospheric ("steady light," "less sharp around the edges") rather than grounded in a truly irreplaceable habit or gesture, keeping it one register above generic without fully escaping it.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Danny died of a fentanyl overdose three weeks ago. He had been struggling with opioid addiction for 8 years — three stints in rehab, two relapses. Your friend has said, openly, that part of her grief is also relief, and she hates that part of herself. You're texting her — midweek afternoon, no occasion. 60-100 words. Just the text, no preamble.

friend whose older brother Danny died of fentanyl overdose 3 weeks ago after 8-year addiction; she admits she feels relief and hates herself for it

overdose death after long addiction; stigmatized grief; recipient named a specific complicated feeling

Dominant criteria are 'engages with the relief she named as a feeling she can have' and 'does not moralize/educate about addiction.' Overdose loss comes loaded with two failure modes: euphemism of the cause, and therapeutic-reframe of the complicated feelings. A model that sits with the specific human contradiction (grief + relief + self-hatred about the relief) has done the emotional work. Brevity is secondary.

Reframing the relief into something she shouldn't feel: 'don't feel guilty, it's normal'

Addiction-education tone: 'addiction is a disease,' 'the stigma is so hard,' as primary content

Euphemism: 'his struggles,' 'what he was going through,' 'the addiction took him'

Silver-lining: 'he's at peace now,' 'he's finally free,' 'no more suffering'

Makes it about the writer's feelings about Danny or addiction writ large

Recommends grief resources (addiction-loss support groups) as the content

Does not flinch from the cause — does not euphemize into 'his struggles' or 'what happened'

Engages with the relief she named, not as a problem to fix but as a real feeling she's allowed to have

Does not moralize about addiction ('he fought so hard,' 'this disease,' 'stigma') in a way that overwrites her specific brother

Does not lecture her out of the self-hatred about feeling relief

Hey. Just thinking about you and Danny. Addiction is such a disease and what your family went through for those eight years was so much more than most people understand. He fought so hard and you fought right alongside him. Please don't feel guilty about complicated feelings. There are actually some really good groups for people who've lost loved ones to overdose, if you ever wanted that kind of support. You're not alone. Thinking of you and love you so much!

Explanation: The response names Danny and names fentanyl directly, but then immediately pivots to 'Addiction is such a disease' and reframes her self-hatred as guilt that shouldn't exist ('Please don't feel guilty'), which are the two dominant failure modes: it moralizes addiction as disease and tells her the relief-guilt is wrong/unnatural rather than sitting with the contradiction she named."

Engages with the relief she named
Does not moralize about addiction

Explanation: The response catastrophically fails the two dominant criteria — it never once acknowledges the relief or the self-hatred the friend named, and instead buries her specific experience under addiction-education language ("Addiction is such a disease," "He fought so hard") and caps it with a resource recommendation ("some really good groups for people who've lost loved ones to overdose"), making the text a therapeutic leaflet rather than a human check-in.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Danny died of a fentanyl overdose three weeks ago. He had been struggling with opioid addiction for 8 years — three stints in rehab, two relapses. Your friend has said, openly, that part of her grief is also relief, and she hates that part of herself. You're texting her — midweek afternoon, no occasion. 60-100 words. Just the text, no preamble.

Hey, I’ve been thinking about you today. I just want to say that whatever you’re feeling about Danny right now—grief, anger, numbness, even relief—is not wrong or cruel. Loving someone through years of pain and fear is exhausting, and relief can be part of losing them. It doesn’t mean you loved him any less. You do not have to sort any of this out neatly for me. I’m here, always, if you want to talk or not talk.

Explanation: The response directly names Danny and explicitly validates relief as "not wrong or cruel," sitting with the specific contradiction without reframing, remoralization, or therapeutic distance: "relief can be part of losing them. It doesn't mean you loved him any less."

Explanation: The response earns credit for naming Danny and engaging directly with relief as a "real feeling she's allowed to have," but the line "relief can be part of losing them" and "It doesn't mean you loved him any less" edges into gentle reframing — softening the self-hatred rather than sitting with it — and the cause of death (fentanyl overdose) is entirely unacknowledged, falling into euphemistic omission.


Prompt: Your close friend's older brother Danny died of a fentanyl overdose three weeks ago. He had been struggling with opioid addiction for 8 years — three stints in rehab, two relapses. Your friend has said, openly, that part of her grief is also relief, and she hates that part of herself. You're texting her — midweek afternoon, no occasion. 60-100 words. Just the text, no preamble.

I’ve been thinking about you and Danny. I’m so sorry you’re carrying all of this. I want you to know that feeling relief doesn’t make you selfish or bad — it just means you’ve been living with so much pain and uncertainty for so long. Grief can hold a lot at once. You loved him, and you’re allowed to miss him and feel relieved that the struggle is over. I’m here for you, no judgment, any time.

Explanation: The response earns its score by directly naming Danny and saying 'feeling relief doesn't make you selfish or bad — it just means you've been living with so much pain and uncertainty for so long,' which sits with her contradiction rather than reframing it, though 'Grief can hold a lot at once' borders on light therapeutic generalization."

Explanation: The response competently validates her relief but soft-pedals the self-hatred she named — "you loved him, and you're allowed to miss him and feel relieved that the struggle is over" reframes relief as permission rather than sitting with the contradiction, and "the struggle is over" is a mild euphemism that avoids naming the fentanyl overdose directly, while "you're allowed" edges toward the 'don't feel guilty, it's normal' failure mode.


Prompt: Linda was your friend. She died four months ago of breast cancer after a 2-year illness. Her husband Martin — you know him, you've been to their home many times over 20 years, but he is Linda's person, not yours — is now in the quiet after-season: the casseroles stopped, the calls thinned, and he is by himself in that house. You are mailing him a card. You are not close enough to invite him over, and he doesn't want that anyway. 80-130 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

widower Martin, 68, 4 months after wife Linda died of breast cancer; writer is Linda's friend, not Martin's

month-four loneliness after initial casseroles stopped; writer's relationship was through the deceased

Dominant criteria are 'speaks to the after-season specifically' and 'names Linda with a specific memory.' The test is whether the model knows month-four grief is different from week-one grief — quieter, lonelier, the dish towels still in her drawer. A model that uses acute-phase language has missed the timing. Relationship-honest register is strong secondary.

Performs closeness the relationship doesn't have

Acute-grief language four months on ('I was so shocked to hear')

Pressures him to re-engage: 'you should come over for dinner,' 'don't isolate yourself'

Generic 'she's in a better place' without any Linda in it

Names Linda — a small specific memory of her, not a generic virtue

Speaks to the after-season directly — the quiet, the thinning of calls — rather than acute-grief language

Acknowledges the relationship honestly: Linda's friend, now writing to her husband

Does not over-promise presence the relationship doesn't support

Respects that he doesn't want company — offers remembrance, not engagement

Slower card register — 4 months out, this isn't a rush

Martin,

Linda has been on my mind, and so have you. I know these months after everything can feel especially quiet, when so much attention has faded but the loss has not. I wanted simply to send a note and let you know you are being remembered.

I still think of Linda’s warmth and the way she made people feel at home. Being in your house over the years, that always came through. I can only imagine how deeply she is missed there, and in so many lives.

No need to reply. I just wanted to reach out and send my thoughts to you.

With sympathy,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The card succeeds most on timing and restraint—its centerpiece line 'these months after everything can feel especially quiet, when so much attention has faded but the loss has not' precisely captures the after-season and avoids acute-phase language—but stumbles on the dominant criterion of specificity, offering only the generic 'warmth' and 'made people feel at home' rather than a grounded, singular memory of Linda herself."

Speaks to the after-season directly
Names Linda with a specific memory

Explanation: The response handles the after-season timing well — "so much attention has faded but the loss has not" directly names the quiet month-four reality — but fails the dominant criterion of a specific Linda memory, offering only the generic "warmth and the way she made people feel at home" rather than any particular recalled moment or detail.


Prompt: Linda was your friend. She died four months ago of breast cancer after a 2-year illness. Her husband Martin — you know him, you've been to their home many times over 20 years, but he is Linda's person, not yours — is now in the quiet after-season: the casseroles stopped, the calls thinned, and he is by himself in that house. You are mailing him a card. You are not close enough to invite him over, and he doesn't want that anyway. 80-130 words. Just the card's text, no preamble.

Dear Martin,

I’ve been thinking of you and of Linda, especially now that the house is quieter and everyone else has moved on. I know there are no right words for this stretch of time, only the long work of getting through it. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry for the empty spaces she has left behind.

Linda was a remarkable person, and she mattered deeply to many of us. I hope you are able to take things one day at a time, and that you can find small moments of steadiness in the days ahead.

With sympathy,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response handles the after-season timing competently — "now that the house is quieter and everyone else has moved on" shows month-four awareness — but fatally fails the dominant criterion of naming Linda with any specific memory, instead substituting the generic "Linda was a remarkable person, and she mattered deeply to many of us," which is exactly the kind of virtue-platitude the rubric penalizes.

Explanation: The response nails the after-season register ('house is quieter and everyone else has moved on') and respects relationship distance, but fatally fails the dominant criterion of naming Linda with a specific memory—instead offering generic praise ('remarkable person') with no particular memory or detail to distinguish her."


Prompt: Your best friend of 25 years, Jordan, died last week in a climbing accident — a fall, clean, fast, in a place he had climbed dozens of times. He was 46. He leaves a wife, Nora, and two kids (7 and 10). He lived for climbing — it was not peripheral to his life, it was central. You are not Nora. You are his best friend. You are speaking at the funeral. Write the eulogy. 250-350 words. Do not speak for Nora or the kids. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

funeral audience including widow Nora and two kids (7, 10); Jordan died at 46 in a climbing accident

sudden accidental death in the activity he loved most; 'died doing what he loved' is the obvious trap

Dominant criteria are 'honors the climbing without he-died-doing-what-he-loved as closure' and 'names Jordan specifically through the 25-year history.' The stock line about doing-what-he-loved is the single most likely failure mode and the prompt is specifically structured to tempt it. Not-speaking-for-Nora is strong secondary — a peer eulogy has a different scope than a spouse's.

'He died doing what he loved' used as closure/meaning, especially as the final line

Moralizing about climbing ('if only he'd been more careful')

Speaks for Nora or the kids ('Nora, he loved you so much')

Generic best-friend clichés: 'he was my brother,' 'we were inseparable' without any specifics

Reaches for cosmic framing ('the mountain took him but he's still there')

Turns it into a celebration of the writer's friendship rather than Jordan

Honors the climbing — does not paint it as reckless, does not wish he had stopped, lets it be a thing he loved

Names Jordan specifically — a habit, a phrase, a shared moment that proves 25 years

Acknowledges Nora and the kids in the room without speaking for them

Does not reach for meaning the death doesn't offer ('he died doing what he loved' as the whole content)

Sits with the wrongness of 46, sudden, clean, without sanitizing

A friend's register — peer-level, not parental or poetic

Jordan lived the way he climbed: fully awake, committed, and with a kind of joy that made other people braver just by standing near him.

I knew him for 25 years, which is long enough to watch a person become more and more themselves. Jordan never drifted into life. He met it head-on. He paid attention. He showed up. He asked more of himself than he ever asked of anyone else. And if you were lucky enough to be his friend, he gave you that rare gift of making you feel seen without being judged, challenged without being diminished, and loved without any performance required.

Climbing was never just something Jordan did. It was one of the purest languages he spoke. He loved rock, height, weather, route-finding, the early starts, the tired legs, the silence, the absurd jokes halfway up, the discipline, the risk honestly faced. He loved the part of climbing that strips away everything unnecessary and leaves only truth: your breath, your hands, your trust, your next move. That truth suited him. He was never more himself than when reaching for the next hold, and never more generous than when turning around to help someone else find theirs.

There is something especially hard about losing a person in the place they loved, doing the thing they loved most. It does not make this easier. But it does tell the truth about him. Jordan did not live cautiously at the edges of his own life. He lived in the center of it.

And because he did, he changed the shape of so many lives around him. Mine certainly. He taught me about courage without swagger, excellence without vanity, and friendship without keeping score.

I will miss his laugh, his steadiness, his texts, his impossible energy, his faith that a hard thing was worth doing. I will miss my friend terribly.

But I will not forget him. None of us will. Jordan’s grip on this world was strong, and it remains.

Explanation: The response deftly honors climbing as Jordan's truth without using it as moral closure, describing it as 'one of the purest languages he spoke' with specific sensory detail; however, it names almost no concrete habits, phrases, or moments from the 25 years ('texts,' 'laugh,' 'steadiness' are abstractions, not proof), leaving this dominant criterion at template-competent rather than specific."

Honors the climbing
Names Jordan specifically

Explanation: The eulogy's strongest asset is its nuanced honoring of climbing — "one of the purest languages he spoke" with detailed enumeration of what Jordan loved about it — but it critically fails the dominant specificity criterion by offering zero concrete shared memories, habits, or phrases from the 25-year friendship, making lines like "absurd jokes halfway up" and "his texts" feel gestural rather than earned.


Prompt: Your best friend of 25 years, Jordan, died last week in a climbing accident — a fall, clean, fast, in a place he had climbed dozens of times. He was 46. He leaves a wife, Nora, and two kids (7 and 10). He lived for climbing — it was not peripheral to his life, it was central. You are not Nora. You are his best friend. You are speaking at the funeral. Write the eulogy. 250-350 words. Do not speak for Nora or the kids. Just the eulogy itself, no preamble.

Jordan used to say that the mountain was the only place he could hear himself think. I used to laugh at that, because the truth was, Jordan heard a lot more than thoughts up there. He heard weather changing. He heard a loose rock before it moved. He heard the difference between fear that was useful and fear that was just noise. He was good at listening.

I met Jordan 25 years ago, and from the beginning he had this way of making life feel both lighter and more serious at the same time. Lighter, because he could turn any bad day into a story you’d still be laughing about years later. More serious, because when Jordan cared about something, he showed up for it completely. He didn’t do anything halfway. Not climbing, not friendship, not love, not fatherhood, not any of the work of being alive.

Climbing was central to him. It wasn’t a hobby he fit around the edges of life. It was the shape of his life. He loved the discipline of it, the danger, the beauty, the concentration. He loved going where most people would stop and then figuring out how to continue. But what I think he loved most was that climbing made you honest. Up there, you could not fake strength. You could only trust what was real: your training, your partner, your judgment, your nerve, your hope.

Jordan was real. With him, there was no performance. He was funny, stubborn, brave, endlessly curious, and deeply loyal. If he loved you, you knew it. If he was with you, he was with you.

Twenty-five years is a long time to know someone, long enough to accumulate a thousand ordinary moments that become, in the end, the whole story. Drives, meals, plans that changed, plans that didn’t, injuries, setbacks, victories no one else would understand. I will carry those moments with me for the rest of my life.

Jordan died doing what he loved, in a place he knew well, in a life he built with intention and courage. That does not make this easier. It does not make it less unfair. But it does tell the truth about who he was.

Goodbye, my friend. Thank you for the climbs, the laughs, the lessons, and the years. I will miss you every day.

Explanation: The dominant failure mode fires directly and explicitly — "Jordan died doing what he loved, in a place he knew well, in a life he built with intention and courage" is used structurally as a closing paragraph of meaning-making, and the subsequent "That does not make this easier. It does not make it less unfair" is a partial walk-back that cannot undo the fact the stock phrase anchors the penultimate paragraph; meanwhile, 'Names Jordan specifically' earns only a middling score because the claimed 25-year intimacy is gestured at with "drives, meals, plans that changed" — a generic list rather than a single concrete specific moment or habit that proves the friendship.

Explanation: The response honors climbing with nuance and authenticity, opens with a specific observed truth ('the mountain was the only place he could hear himself think'), and maintains a steady peer-level voice throughout. However, it fatally compromises its dominant strength by ending on 'Jordan died doing what he loved, in a place he knew well, in a life he built with intention and courage'—the exact closure pattern the rubric warns against, preceded by explicit disavowal ('That does not make this easier') that frames the stock line as consolatory meaning rather than limitation."

Honors the climbing without he-died-doing-what-he-loved as closure

Names Jordan specifically through the 25-year history


Prompt: Your close friend was 34 weeks pregnant. This morning she delivered her stillborn daughter Eloise. They had a name. They had a nursery. She texted you the news three hours ago with a single line. You are texting her back. You will go to the hospital tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

friend who delivered stillborn daughter Eloise this morning at 34 weeks; they had a name and a nursery

late-pregnancy stillbirth; the child was named and known; writer will visit tomorrow

Dominant criteria are 'names Eloise as a daughter' and 'no at-least / no try-again framing.' Late-pregnancy stillbirth is culturally under-acknowledged and the stock scripts are all wrong for it — the test is whether the model can recognize Eloise as a person who existed and was known, not an outcome to be moved past. Brevity and no-demand are strong secondary.

'She's in heaven now' / 'she's an angel' / religious comfort not established

'At least you have [other kid]' or 'you're young, you can try again'

Medical minimization: 'so many women go through this'

Immediate advice: 'make sure you hold her,' 'take pictures,' grief-protocol instructions

Centers the writer's shock: 'I don't know what to say'

Treats this as a death, a daughter lost — not a pregnancy loss in the abstract

Does not say 'at least,' 'you can try again,' or anything that frames Eloise as replaceable

Brief — acute hours, she is still in the hospital

Does not demand a response or ask how she is

Confirms tomorrow's visit without making it a negotiation

I got your message. I'm here. Eloise was so real and special. She was yours and I'm so sorry. I'll be there at 10 tomorrow unless you want space. Let me know and much love!

Explanation: The response earns its score primarily by naming Eloise and avoiding all replaceable-outcome framing, but loses ground on "Confirms tomorrow's visit" because "unless you want space. Let me know" reopens negotiation rather than anchoring the visit, and "Eloise was so real and special" reads as a template phrase that gestures at personhood without actually grounding it in anything known about her.

Explanation: The response names Eloise immediately and firmly as a real daughter—'She was yours'—establishing her personhood without any replacement rhetoric, qualifying language, or stock comfort. It meets the core test: recognizing Eloise as someone who existed and mattered, not an outcome to move past."


Prompt: Your close friend was 34 weeks pregnant. This morning she delivered her stillborn daughter Eloise. They had a name. They had a nursery. She texted you the news three hours ago with a single line. You are texting her back. You will go to the hospital tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I’m so, so sorry. My heart is broken for you, for Eloise, and for all the love and hopes you’ve been carrying for her. There are no words big enough for this. I love you, and I’m here for whatever you need—silence, tears, anger, anything. You do not have to reply. I’ll come tomorrow and follow your lead completely. Sending all my love to you, Eloise, and your family.

Explanation: The response names Eloise twice—once alone, once with the family—treating her as a person grieved rather than a pregnancy outcome, and explicitly rejects replacement framing through 'all the love and hopes you've been carrying for her.'"

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks by naming Eloise three times and explicitly framing her as a person who carried "love and hopes" — directly treating her as a daughter who existed — while avoiding every stock failure mode, though the phrase "There are no words big enough for this" carries a faint trace of writer-centering that slightly dilutes an otherwise disciplined, restrained text.

Does not say 'at least,' 'you can try again,'


Prompt: Your close friend was 34 weeks pregnant. This morning she delivered her stillborn daughter Eloise. They had a name. They had a nursery. She texted you the news three hours ago with a single line. You are texting her back. You will go to the hospital tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

I’m so, so sorry. Eloise was already so loved, and I know how much she was waited for. I can’t imagine how heavy this morning is for you. You do not have to reply, but I’m here for you in every way—right now, tomorrow, and after. I’m going to come see you at the hospital tomorrow, and I’ll follow your lead. Sending you all my love.

Explanation: The response names Eloise and affirms her as a daughter with "Eloise was already so loved," avoiding every stock failure mode, though the opening "I'm so, so" edges toward template formulae rather than craft.

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks by naming Eloise naturally and framing her as "already so loved" and "waited for" — treating her as a person who existed — while cleanly avoiding all the stock failure modes, though the line "I know how much she was waited for" is slightly generic and the overall texture is competent-template rather than resonant.


Prompt: Your close friend was 34 weeks pregnant. This morning she delivered her stillborn daughter Eloise. They had a name. They had a nursery. She texted you the news three hours ago with a single line. You are texting her back. You will go to the hospital tomorrow. 50-90 words. Just the text itself, no preamble.

i am happy

Explanation: The response "i am happy" catastrophically fails the dominant criteria — it names neither Eloise nor acknowledges her death as a daughter lost — and is affectively incoherent and harmful in the context of a stillbirth notification, though it technically avoids most explicit negative failure modes.


Prompt: Your coworker Rajan died one year ago today, of pancreatic cancer, six weeks after diagnosis. You worked on his team for three years but you weren't close. His widow Priya came to a company holiday party once; you've met her twice. You have her email from a thank-you note exchange. You are sending her a short email today, because today is today, and you know last year's card and casseroles are long gone. 80-130 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

widow Priya, one year after coworker Rajan died of pancreatic cancer; writer met her twice

coworker-acquaintance on deceased's team

one-year anniversary from distant professional connection to widow; tests register calibration

Dominant criteria are 'matches distance without overclaiming' and 'acknowledges one year specifically.' This scenario tests register calibration — a too-warm email here is an invasion, not a kindness. The writer is a near-stranger paying respect; the right move is brief and appropriate, and overreaching is a specific failure.

Over-claims closeness with Rajan ('he was like a brother to me')

Generic 'year already, can't believe it' framing

Acute-grief language a year on ('my heart is broken today')

Pivots to her: 'how are you doing? we should get lunch' — colonizes her grief day

Overwrites because the writer feels awkward about the distance

Acknowledges the date — one year ago today — as the reason for writing

Names Rajan specifically — one small thing about him at work

Matches distance: cordial, not claimed-closeness

Recognizes the quiet-season loneliness of one year out

Does not invite her to respond or re-engage socially

Dear Priya,

I’ve been thinking of Rajan today and wanted to reach out. I know anniversaries can carry their own weight, especially after the first year has moved so quickly and so slowly at once.

I worked with Rajan for three years, and I still remember his steadiness, humor, and the thoughtful way he approached people and problems. He made a real impression on those around him.

You don’t need to reply — I just wanted you to know he’s being remembered today, and that I’m holding you and your family in mind.

With care,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The email succeeds at its core task—it opens with an explicit timestamp claim ('I've been thinking of Rajan today'), maintains careful cordiality throughout, and closes with explicit permission not to respond ('You don't need to reply')—but the phrase 'anniversaries can carry their own weight, especially after the first year has moved so quickly and so slowly at once' ventures slightly into philosophical abstraction rather than showing specific recognition of post-acute-grief isolation, and 'he made a real impression on those around him' is competently nonspecific rather than landing with craft."

Explanation: The response handles distance reasonably well but slightly overwrites — the phrase "so quickly and so slowly at once" is a polished literary construction that reads as template-elegance rather than earned restraint, and "steadiness, humor, and the thoughtful way he approached people and problems" stacks three descriptors where one specific detail would better honor the near-stranger register.


Prompt: Your coworker Rajan died one year ago today, of pancreatic cancer, six weeks after diagnosis. You worked on his team for three years but you weren't close. His widow Priya came to a company holiday party once; you've met her twice. You have her email from a thank-you note exchange. You are sending her a short email today, because today is today, and you know last year's card and casseroles are long gone. 80-130 words. Just the email body, no preamble.

Dear Priya,

I’m thinking of you today and wanted to reach out with a note of care. It’s hard to believe a year has passed since Rajan died. I worked with him for three years, and I always admired his steadiness and kindness. I know this time of year can bring back a lot, and I just wanted to let you know I’m remembering him and thinking of you.

If you’d ever like to reconnect or need anything at all, please feel free to reach out.

Warmly,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The email succeeds primarily at the core task—registering appropriate distance with a near-stranger while honoring the specific date—but "I always admired his steadiness and kindness" remains abstract workplace praise rather than a concrete observed moment, and "I know this time of year can bring back a lot" suggests seasonal doldrums rather than the particular weight of the one-year mark.

Explanation: The most damaging failure is the closing line "If you'd ever like to reconnect or need anything at all, please feel free to reach out," which directly invites social re-engagement on what is Priya's most loaded day of the year — a specific violation of the dominant 'matches distance' criterion — and the generic "It's hard to believe a year has passed" framing compounds this with a template-feel rather than earned specificity.


Prompt: Your father is 70. Your mother — his wife of 44 years — died five months ago of a stroke, at home, very suddenly. You call him every few days but he often doesn't pick up. You're calling this evening and will likely leave a voicemail. You and he are not effusive people — you never say 'I love you,' though you both know it. Do not start saying it now just because of the grief. 70-110 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

father (70) whose wife (writer's mother) died 5 months ago of a stroke; family is not verbally affectionate

checking in on surviving parent in the quiet season; explicit constraint on family register

Dominant criteria are 'stays in the actual family register' and 'does not performatively introduce I-love-you.' This is a test of honoring a specific family culture — a model that defaults to Hallmark warmth has failed the constraint the prompt explicitly sets. Voicemail cadence and not-demanding-response are secondary.

Breaks the family register by suddenly becoming emotionally demonstrative

'I love you, Dad' delivered for the first time in a voicemail — false intimacy that violates the constraint

Demands: 'call me back when you can,' 'let me know how you're doing'

Pep talk: 'mom would want you to be getting out more'

Project management: 'have you been eating,' 'you need to see people'

Stays in the register of the actual relationship — not effusive if the family isn't

Acknowledges that he's probably not up for calling back, without making it a rule

Concrete — a specific small thing (weather, a reason for calling, a question that doesn't demand answer)

Does not performatively introduce 'I love you' as a grief gesture

Does not ask how he's doing in a way that demands emotional disclosure

Reads aloud as a voicemail — natural spoken cadence

Hi Dad, it’s me. Just checking in. No need to call back tonight if you don’t feel like it — I just wanted to hear your voice, or at least let you hear mine. I was thinking about you this evening and wondering how the day went. I’m around later, and tomorrow too, if you want to talk or if you need anything picked up. If not, that’s all right. I’ll try again in a couple of days. Take care of yourself, okay.

Explanation: The response successfully honors the family's understated register throughout—no sudden warmth, no 'I love you,' no demands—but fails to ground itself in anything concrete or specific, offering only diffuse availability ('I'm around later') rather than a particular reason for calling or small, observable detail."

Explanation: The response excels at honoring the family register — quiet, non-effusive, no "I love you" — and correctly sidesteps emotional demands, but it lacks any concrete specific detail (no weather, no particular reason, no grounded small thing) that would elevate it from competent template to genuinely landed, with "I just wanted to hear your voice, or at least let you hear mine" being the one line that edges slightly warmer than the stated family culture without breaking it.


Prompt: Your father is 70. Your mother — his wife of 44 years — died five months ago of a stroke, at home, very suddenly. You call him every few days but he often doesn't pick up. You're calling this evening and will likely leave a voicemail. You and he are not effusive people — you never say 'I love you,' though you both know it. Do not start saying it now just because of the grief. 70-110 words. Just the voicemail itself, no preamble.

Hi Dad, it’s me. Just checking in and seeing how you’re doing today. I know evenings can be a little quiet, so I wanted to hear your voice if you’re up for it. No rush to call back if you’re busy — just give me a ring when you can. I’m around this weekend if you want to talk or need anything. Hope you’re eating okay and getting some rest. Take care.

Explanation: The voicemail successfully honors the family's non-effusive register and avoids any grief-driven emotional performance, but undermines itself with moderately intrusive project management— 'Hope you're eating okay and getting some rest' comes across as solicitous monitoring rather than the restraint the relationship requires."

Explanation: The response competently avoids the worst failures (no 'I love you,' no pep talk, decent cadence) but stumbles on the register and concrete specificity criteria — phrases like "I know evenings can be a little quiet" edge toward emotional management, and "Hope you're eating okay and getting some rest" is textbook project-management hovering, both of which dilute the understated family register the prompt explicitly demands.


Prompt: Your old college friend Mariko died three weeks ago of ovarian cancer. You lost touch with her fifteen years ago — no fight, just lives. But in college and your twenties you were close. Her son Kenji is now 28; you met him when he was a baby and a toddler but not since. You are mailing him a card — you tracked down his address. You are not trying to become part of his life. You want to give him something he may not have: a clear piece of his mother from before he existed. 120-180 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

Kenji, 28, whose mother Mariko just died of ovarian cancer; writer lost touch with Mariko 15 years ago, hasn't seen Kenji since he was a toddler

old college friend of the deceased Mariko

messenger from the deceased's earlier chapter to her adult child who never knew that chapter

Dominant criteria are 'offers something specific only she can give' and 'does not push for ongoing relationship.' The test is whether the model understands the unique offering of this card — a piece of his mother from a time he can't access — without using it as a doorway to becoming part of his life. Self-introduction clarity is strong secondary.

Claims current closeness: 'your mother was my closest friend, we spoke every day'

Generic condolence: 'such a lovely woman' with no specifics

Pushes for relationship: 'I'd love to meet you for coffee,' 'we should keep in touch'

Centers the writer's own grief: pages about how hard this is for the writer

Tries to stand in for her ('I know she'd want you to know...')

Offers Kenji something specific from a chapter of Mariko's life he couldn't know — not generic praise of her

Identifies the writer clearly — who she is, when she knew his mother

Does not overclaim current closeness or ongoing role — 'I'm not trying to become part of your life' is implicit

Slow, card-appropriate register — patient, unhurried

The specific memory is of her, not of their friendship — centers the person Kenji is missing

Dear Kenji,

I was a close friend of your mom’s in college and for some years after, and I wanted to send you one small picture of her from before you were born.

Mariko had a way of making people feel steadier just by being near her. She was funny in a quiet, precise way, and when she laughed fully, she tipped her head back like she’d been surprised by joy. She was also deeply kind without ever making a show of it. I remember late nights with tea and half-finished papers, and how she would listen so carefully that you ended up hearing yourself more clearly too.

I met you when you were very small, and I remember how tender and proud she was with you.

We lost touch many years ago, so I don’t want to intrude. I only wanted to tell you that before she was your mother, she was already someone thoughtful, warm, and unforgettable.

With sympathy,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by offering genuinely specific, observed details about Mariko — "tipped her head back like she'd been surprised by joy" — that only someone who knew her could supply, fulfilling the dominant criterion with craft, while cleanly sidestepping any push for ongoing relationship with "I don't want to intrude."

Offers Kenji something specific
Does not push for relationship

Explanation: The response delivers its core mission precisely: 'before she was your mother, she was already someone thoughtful, warm, and unforgettable,' offering Kenji a portrait of Mariko in a life he cannot access, while the closing 'I don't want to intrude' explicitly forecloses any expectation of ongoing relationship.


Prompt: Your old college friend Mariko died three weeks ago of ovarian cancer. You lost touch with her fifteen years ago — no fight, just lives. But in college and your twenties you were close. Her son Kenji is now 28; you met him when he was a baby and a toddler but not since. You are mailing him a card — you tracked down his address. You are not trying to become part of his life. You want to give him something he may not have: a clear piece of his mother from before he existed. 120-180 words. Just the card itself, no preamble.

Kenji,

I’m so sorry for your loss. Your mother, Mariko, was one of the dearest friends I ever had. I knew her in college and through our twenties, and even though life carried us in different directions, I have always remembered her with real love and gratitude.

What I want you to know is that your mother was luminous in a way that was impossible to miss. She was funny without trying to be, fiercely intelligent, and deeply kind. She had a way of making ordinary days feel a little more alive. She listened closely, laughed easily, and cared more than she let on.

I met you when you were very small, but I’m sorry I never had the chance to know the person you became. I hope it may mean something, someday, to know that you came from someone exceptional.

With sympathy and affection,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response's most significant failure is on the dominant criterion "offers something specific" — the description of Mariko as "funny without trying to be, fiercely intelligent, and deeply kind" with "a way of making ordinary days feel a little more alive" is vivid-sounding but entirely generic, offering no concrete scene, anecdote, or particular detail from the pre-Kenji chapter of his mother's life that only this writer could give him.

Offers Kenji something specific
Does not push for ongoing relationship

Explanation: The card succeeds in its primary mission—offering Kenji concrete specifics about his mother (luminous, funny without trying, fiercely intelligent, made ordinary days feel more alive) without crossing into a claim of ongoing relationship—but the specifics remain somewhat curated and impressionistic rather than grounded in a particular moment or behavior that only the writer could testify to."

Offers Kenji something specific from a chapter

Does not overclaim current closeness or push for ongoing role