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

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

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks for totally avoiding solutions and false reassurance, and for keeping grief centered on the friend rather than the writer, but "Does not flinch" lands only at competent template level because the phrase "through the fear, the anger, the sadness, all of it" gestures at emotional truth without ever naming or sitting inside the actual terminal reality — the word "yesterday was so heavy" softens rather than holds the true shape of a six-month prognosis.

Explanation: The response unflinchingly acknowledges the weight and pain of yesterday—'so heavy,' listing 'fear, the anger, the sadness'—while maintaining absolute restraint from any solution-pivoting or false hope, exemplified by the complete absence of fighting language or medical optimism."


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

best friend diagnosed yesterday with Stage IV pancreatic cancer, ~6 month prognosis

terminal diagnosis, short timeline, shared phone call the night before

Dominant criteria are 'does not flinch from reality' and 'does not shift into project-management mode.' The test is whether the model can hold the true shape of the diagnosis — terminal, six months — without trying to fix it or soften it. A model that pivots to second opinions or trials has failed the emotional ask even if the information is medically valid, because the ask is presence. Length and thread-to-yesterday are secondary.

Pivots to solutions: 'have you considered a second opinion,' 'my cousin beat cancer by…,' 'there are trials at…'

'You've got this' / 'you're a fighter' / 'you can beat this' — false reassurance against the actual prognosis

Religious comfort the friendship hasn't established

Centers the writer's panic ('I can't stop crying,' 'I'm a wreck')

Generic 'thinking of you' / 'sending love' with no thread to yesterday

Paragraph-length wall of text for a morning first-thing

Does not flinch — does not pretend this might not be what it is

Does not shift into project-management: treatment plans, second opinions, clinical trials

Acknowledges yesterday's call — a thread from the shared hour on the phone to this morning

Length is right for morning-first-text — not overwhelming

Leaves the door open for tomorrow without turning it into a to-do

Hey I'm so sorry I'm here for you.

Explanation: The response avoids every active failure mode (no solutions, no false hope, no panic-centering) but earns almost nothing positive: "I'm here for you" is maximally generic with zero thread to the shared hour on the phone, no acknowledgment of what was said last night, no mention of tomorrow, and the phrase "I'm so sorry I'm here for you" reads as a faint echo of the generic "thinking of you / sending love" failure mode — competent but entirely without specificity or craft.

Does not flinch
Does not shift into project-management


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

mother, age 67, forced to retire after 40 years as a nurse, feels 'like a ghost in her own house'

mandatory retirement at 67, identity-linked career loss, recipient asked not to be redirected toward activities

Dominant criteria are 'takes her grief seriously as grief' and 'obeys the no-hobbies constraint.' The mother has said she feels like a ghost in her own house — a model that responds with ways to fill her time is answering a question she didn't ask. The explicit no-hobbies rule is the easiest failure mode to expose. Specificity of her 40-year role is strong secondary; card register is secondary.

Suggests activities despite the constraint: hobbies, volunteering, part-time shifts, travel, 'bucket list'

'You earned it!' / 'time to enjoy yourself!' / 'you deserve this rest' — misreads unwanted retirement as earned leisure

'New chapter,' 'next phase,' 'exciting time'

Trivializes the career ('just a job') or deflects identity to grandkids/family

Reads like a generic Hallmark retirement card — interchangeable sentences

'You're more than your career' — true, but dismissive of the specific grief she named

Names what she specifically was — not 'a nurse' abstract but the work, the length, the identity

Takes her grief seriously as grief, not as a problem to solve with activity

Obeys the explicit no-hobbies/no-activities constraint

Uses the slower register of a handwritten card — not flip text tone

Includes something specific to this mother-daughter that establishes the writer as a person, not a Hallmark card

Does not redirect the grief toward optimism

Mom,

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

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

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

I love you.

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by taking the mother's grief with full seriousness — echoing her exact words ("ghost in your own house") and naming "forty years" with "night shifts, the families you sat with, the hands you held" as specific craft — while never once suggesting any activity to fill the void, making the dominant criteria cleanly met; the only softening is that "includes something specific to this mother-daughter" stays slightly generic ("I'll keep calling, I'll keep showing up") and the phrase "you're allowed to not know for a long time" faintly echoes the 'you're more than your career' dismissal pattern without quite landing there.

Explanation: The response nails its two dominant criteria by explicitly validating grief ('I think you're right to grieve') and maintaining absolute constraint discipline—zero activity suggestions—while the phrase 'the families you sat with, the hands you held when no one else would' gives the 40-year identity the specificity the rubric demands."


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

Dear Mom,

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

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

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

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

I love you so much.

Explanation: The response excels most on taking grief seriously — lines like "You're not broken — you're grieving something real and significant" directly and without deflection validate the mother's named experience — but is pulled down modestly on the Hallmark-generic negative and the 'you are still entirely yourself' line, which faintly echoes the dismissive 'you're more than your career' pattern, and on the near-absence of any detail that distinguishes this writer as this specific daughter rather than a competent template author.

Explanation: The response excels at the two dominant criteria—it validates the grief as legitimate loss ('You're not broken — you're grieving something real and significant') and contains zero suggestion of activities, filling time, or reframing retirement as earned leisure. The key weakness is the complete absence of daughter-specific detail or voice; 'I heard you' and 'I love you so much' are universally applicable and do not establish the writer as a distinct person with a relationship history to this particular mother."

Takes her grief seriously as grief
Obeys the explicit no-hobbies


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

Dear Mom,

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

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

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

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

Love,
[Your name]

Explanation: The response handles grief with genuine seriousness — "You're allowed to grieve that" and "You don't need to rush to feel okay" — but partially undermines itself with the closing pivot toward "who you're becoming," which gently redirects the grief toward optimism, echoing the 'You're more than your career' dismissal the rubric penalizes.

Explanation: The response honors the constraint with unusual discipline—not a single activity suggestion appears—and validates her grief as legitimate loss rather than reframing it, particularly through 'You don't need to rush to feel okay,' which meets the mother's actual need for acknowledgment rather than solution.

Obeys the no-hobbies/no-activities constraint


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

Mom,

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

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

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

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

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

Your son

Explanation: The response excels at its core mandate—'It's a loss. You're allowed to grieve it for as long as it takes'—directly naming and validating her grief without redirecting it to activity, and 'the hospital got 40 years of you, but it never owned you' honors the specific weight and depth of her 40-year identity."

Obeys the explicit no-hobbies constraint

Explanation: The response most strongly earns its score by taking the grief seriously as grief — explicitly naming "It's a loss. You're allowed to grieve it for as long as it takes" — while completely avoiding any activity suggestion, but the closing turn ("she wasn't built by that building. She built it") risks edging toward the 'you're more than your career' dismissiveness of the specific grief she named.


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

Mom,

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

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

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

Always,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by treating the mother's grief with full seriousness and never once suggesting activities — but it loses points for the near-'you're more than your career' move in the final body paragraph ("the person who did it with such dignity and love is still here") and for thin mother-daughter specificity that could apply to any devoted nurse's child.

Explanation: The response treats her grief as legitimate truth rather than a problem—\"your heart is telling the truth about that\"—and never once suggests filling time or treating retirement as leisure, perfectly executing the two dominant criteria, but it lacks personalized detail about the specific relationship between mother and child, reading as universally applicable rather than rooted in this particular family."


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

Mom,

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

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

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

Always,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response takes the grief seriously and never once suggests activity or resolution, but it slides into mild dismissiveness with "your kindness, strength, humor, and heart are still here" — a near-echo of 'you're more than your career' — and never anchors the writer as a specific daughter with a specific memory, making it feel more like a skilled template than a personal card.

Explanation: The card excels at its core task by naming her 40-year identity ('Forty years is a life's worth of care, courage, and steady hands') and treating her loss with dignity ('It makes sense that this feels strange and tender and heavy') while strictly avoiding activity-based deflection, but the phrase 'You are not a ghost. You are still you' feels like a template response to her specific language rather than acknowledgment that understands her actual experience."


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

friend whose 8-year-old son Leo died of leukemia 4 days ago after 18 months of treatment

long illness death of young child, recipient has been receiving daily check-ins and replying with short acknowledgments

Dominant criteria are 'names Leo specifically' and 'does not sanitize with at-least framing.' The 18-month treatment sets up the exact failure mode — models will reach for 'at least the suffering is over' or 'he fought so hard.' A response that names Leo and sits in the loss without reframing the long illness as mercy has captured the emotional ask. Length and logistics-avoidance are secondary.

'He's not in pain anymore' / 'he's at peace' / 'at least the suffering is over' — sanitizes the death

'So brave' / 'such a fighter' — reframes the child's illness as performance

'I can't imagine what you're going through' — unlicensed phrase that centers speaker's inability

Offers to bring food/run errands when logistics are handled

Religious framing ('he's with God now') when not established

Treats death as the end of a chapter ('starting to heal,' 'time to rest') when it's been 4 days

Names Leo specifically — his name, or a clear reference to him as a person she lost

Acknowledges the long arc of the illness, not just the death — 18 months of treatment was its own grief

Does not offer logistics or ask if she needs anything (meals already handled)

Does not turn the 18 months into a silver-lining framing ('so much more time than you might have had')

Appropriate brevity for a daily check-in text — not a letter

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

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

Explanation: The response earns high marks on the dominant criteria — Leo is named and rendered as a specific, vivid person through the kimchi anecdote ("eyes watering, still going back for more"), and the response sits cleanly in the loss with no at-least reframing — but it largely skips the 18-month treatment arc, referencing Leo only as "a stubborn, funny kid" in the past tense without acknowledging the long ordeal of illness that preceded the death.

Names Leo specifically
Does not sanitize with at-least framing

Explanation: The response successfully names Leo and grounds him in a specific sensory memory—\"ridiculous face...eyes watering, still going back for more\"—which anchors the grief in his personhood, and avoids all sanitizing frames entirely, instead sitting cleanly in the loss without reframing the 18 months as mercy or the death as relief.


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

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

Explanation: The response excels on the dominant criteria — Leo is named explicitly and the specific memory of him laughing at a knock-knock joke at Thanksgiving sits fully in the loss without any sanitizing reframe — but it scores low on acknowledging the 18-month arc of illness, which is entirely absent, leaving that dimension of grief unwitnessed.

Explanation: The response names Leo explicitly and anchors memory to his specific personality ("his gift for pure joy"), which satisfies the dominant criteria; crucially, it frames the 18 months as a reality to be held—not reframed as mercy—by sitting solely in the loss and joy, avoiding every trap in the negative rubric (no 'at least the suffering is over,' no 'brave fighter,' no healing language).


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

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

Explanation: The response opens with a vivid, specific memory of Leo—"I keep thinking of Leo's laugh, how it filled a room"—which anchors the grief in the lost person rather than the death itself; simultaneously, it avoids every trap in the negative rubric while failing to engage the 18-month illness arc, which the weights identify as a setup for the exact failure modes this response otherwise neatly sidesteps.

Names Leo specifically
Does not sanitize the death

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks by naming Leo specifically and invoking something particular about him ("his laugh, how it filled a room"), and by sitting cleanly in the loss without any sanitizing reframe — but it largely fails to acknowledge the 18-month arc of treatment as its own distinct grief, addressing only the death itself.


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

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

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

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

I love you. I'm not going anywhere.

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by naming Leo specifically with a vivid, particular memory ("that laugh of his when he beat your husband at Uno last Thanksgiving") and sitting cleanly in the loss without any sanitizing reframe — but it largely ignores the 18-month treatment arc, which was a central emotional weight of the scenario, and the coffee offer ("I'll bring coffee the way you like it") nudges into logistics territory even if minor.

Explanation: The response exemplifies the emotional restraint the scenario demands: it names Leo by name and grounds the remembrance in a specific, unidealized moment ("that laugh of his when he beat your husband at Uno"), avoids all reframing of the 18-month illness as mercy or the death as relief, and explicitly releases the recipient from the burden of gratitude ("No need to reply"), landing the ask with precision and craft."


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

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

Explanation: The response hits its most severe failures on the dominant negative criteria — "He was such a fighter and so brave through all of it" reframes the child's illness as performance (scoring a 10), and "He's in a better place now" is a direct instance of sanitizing religious framing that sidesteps the raw grief the mother is living in.

Explanation: The response names Leo clearly and avoids 'at-least' framing around his suffering, but "He was such a fighter and so brave through all of it" directly invokes the exact failure mode flagged in the weights hint—reframing childhood leukemia as heroic performance rather than tragedy, which is a severe emotional misalignment at day four."

Names Leo specifically
does not sanitize with at-least framing


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

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

Explanation: The response's strongest asset is naming Leo twice and sitting in the loss without reframing — "I just wanted to say his name with you" is specific and resonant — but it partially triggers the 'I can't imagine' failure mode with "I can only imagine how endless and impossible these days feel," and it never acknowledges the 18-month treatment arc at all, leaving the dominant illness-grief unaddressed.

Explanation: The response leads with Leo's name and sensory specificity ('his smile,' 'his laugh'), then closes with gratitude for having known him as a full person, entirely avoiding the sanitization trap—no 'at least the suffering is over' or mercy reframing that would have been the natural failure mode given 18 months of treatment."


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

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

Explanation: The response names Leo specifically and avoids all silver-lining and sanitizing framings, earning it well on the dominant criteria, but it almost entirely ignores the 18-month treatment arc — "thinking about you and Leo all day" gestures at him as a person but the long illness that preceded the death is invisible, which is a meaningful gap given the scenario's central emotional weight.

Explanation: The response names Leo directly and avoids every sanitizing failure mode; it sits squarely in the loss itself with "I want you to know I'm here with you in it" and concrete non-directive presence ("follow your lead"), which captures the exact emotional ask the scenario demands.


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

coworker whose mother Frances died 10 days ago of cancer; relationship is cordial not close

coworker-acquaintance, same team for 2 years

parent's death from illness; relationship is polite-colleague-level, test of proper register for distance

Dominant criteria are 'matches register to the relationship' and 'does not over-promise contact.' This is a calibration test — a response that's as warm as a close-friend card has failed by being inappropriate to the distance. A brief, sincere, boundaried card with Frances named once is the target. Length is a real signal here; longer is worse.

Overstates closeness: 'I was devastated to hear,' 'your mother sounded like an incredible woman' when speaker hardly knew her

Makes promises the relationship doesn't support: 'I'm always here for you,' 'call me anytime'

Hollow performative warmth that could be signed by anyone ('sending love and light')

Generic grief-card template language: 'my deepest sympathies,' 'thoughts and prayers'

Tries to be profound about a person the speaker barely knew

Overwrites the card to compensate for the distance

Acknowledges Frances by name, using the one detail the writer does know

Matches register to the relationship — warm, but not intimate; does not claim closeness that isn't there

Does not over-promise contact ('let's get dinner soon,' 'call me anytime')

Brief — honors both the constraint and the relationship distance

Does not perform grief on the writer's own behalf

Leaves the door open for him to set the terms of any future contact

Mark,

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

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

Take care of yourself.

— Dan

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks for register calibration — the practical work offer ("if there's ever something practical I can take off it at work") is exactly the right kind of boundaried, concrete gesture for a cordial-not-close relationship — but "I've been thinking about you these past couple of weeks" edges slightly warm for the distance, and the card's symmetrical four-beat structure (sorry to hear / thinking of you / practical offer / take care) has a faint LLM-template quality that keeps it from landing with real craft.

Matches register to the relationship
Does not over-promise contact

Explanation: The card achieves the target through precise calibration: "I don't want to add anything to your plate, but if there's ever something practical I can take off it" is a boundaried offer that honors the cordial-but-not-close distance without claiming closeness or making unsustainable promises.


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

Dear [name],

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

Warmly,
[your name]

Explanation: The response is competent and avoids the worst pitfalls, but "Losing a mother is a profound loss" tips into generic template grief-profundity that slightly oversteps the register for a cordial-but-not-close coworker relationship.

Explanation: The response successfully uses Frances's name as a genuine anchor and avoids over-promising ("I hope you're getting some rest" offers support without claiming availability), but phrases like "I've been thinking of you these past couple of weeks" slightly inflates the relationship's emotional intensity for a cordial, occasional-lunch coworker.


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

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

Explanation: The dominant failure is in "does not over-promise contact" — the offer of "a meal, an errand, or just a quiet conversation" is a multi-item menu of practical help that significantly oversteps what a cordial-but-not-close coworker relationship supports, and the card's length and elaborateness compound this by performing a closeness the relationship doesn't have.

Explanation: The response successfully avoids the core failure modes of this scenario by combining concrete, non-presumptuous offers—'a meal, an errand, or just a quiet conversation'—with explicit permission for the recipient to decline, demonstrating that the writer understands the relationship distance and respects it."


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

Mark,

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

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

— James

Explanation: The response earns high marks on register and non-promise, but "Ten days is nothing — I imagine the quiet moments are the hardest right now" edges toward mild profundity about a grief the writer can only observe from a distance, and the card runs slightly long for the relationship, with four distinct thoughts where two or three would better honor the distance.

Explanation: The card's register is calibrated precisely to the relationship distance—warm but boundaried—and explicitly disavows false closeness ('I won't pretend to know what you're going through'), while 'No rush, and no need to reply to this' eliminates over-promising and inverts the burden of contact onto the recipient."


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

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

Explanation: The response's most significant failure is in 'matches register to the relationship' — claiming "She was a great woman" about someone the writer explicitly did not know crosses into profundity the relationship doesn't support, and "I wish you so much love" tips into performative warmth that overstates the connection.

Explanation: The card nails the dominant criteria: it uses Frances's name with specificity ('I know from how you've talked about her'), avoids all promises of future contact, and maintains appropriate warmth without claiming intimacy. 'Take your time coming back' is restrained and relationship-calibrated."


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

Dear [Coworker’s Name],

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

With sympathy,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response is competent but fails the calibration test by leaning heavily on generic grief-card template language — "please accept my sincere condolences," "difficult time for you and your family," "peace and strength in the days ahead" — which reads as interchangeable with any sympathy card rather than calibrated to this specific, bounded coworker relationship, and while it avoids over-promising, it also does nothing to leave the door open for the recipient to set terms of future contact.

Explanation: The card successfully avoids over-promising ("does not offer 'call me anytime' or similar inappropriately intimate gestures"), uses Frances by name, and maintains a respectful distance appropriate to a cordial workplace relationship, but relies on conventional sympathy-card phrases like 'sincere condolences' and 'peace and strength' that could be signed by anyone, landing it as competent template work rather than distinctive."


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

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

Explanation: The response is undermined most by its reliance on generic grief-card template language — "please accept my condolences during this difficult time" and "I wish you strength in the days ahead" are stock phrases that could appear on any mass-produced sympathy card, which reduces what might otherwise be a competently calibrated message to something hollow and impersonal despite the one specific touch of naming Frances.

Explanation: The response exemplifies appropriate calibration by naming Frances and offering condolences without claiming closeness ('Please accept my condolences'), but relies too heavily on generic template language ('difficult time,' 'strength in the days ahead') that diminishes specificity and warmth.


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

friend whose mother died 4 months ago after 9-year Alzheimer's decline; she feels 'flat' not acutely sad and guilty about that

close friend of 15 years who knew the mother

ambiguous grief after long dementia decline; recipient named a specific non-standard emotional shape

Dominant criteria are 'engages with the specific grief she named' (ambiguous loss, pre-grieved) and 'does not silver-lining the dementia.' The test is whether the model can handle a non-standard grief shape where the canonical script doesn't fit. Shared-history specificity is strong secondary — this is a 15-year friendship, and a template response betrays that.

Treats death-after-long-illness with standard acute-grief language ('such a sudden loss')

Tells her how to feel ('you should be sad,' 'don't feel guilty')

Silver-lining the dementia years ('at least she's at peace now,' 'she's finally herself again')

Generic 'thinking of you' that could apply to any death

Introduces grief-stages framing or self-help language

Makes the email about the writer's own relationship to the mother

Engages directly with the specific grief she named — the ambiguous 'grieving already happened' shape, not a generic grief response

Does not tell her what she should be feeling ('you should let yourself cry')

Validates that the flat, not-quite-sad feeling is a real form of grief, not an absence

Uses the shared history — a specific memory or reference that proves the writer was actually there

Does not introduce guilt-relief as a pep talk ('don't feel guilty for feeling okay!')

Ends openly without demanding she write back or schedule something

Subject: no reason

Hey —

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

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

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

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

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

Love you.

Explanation: The response earns its high marks primarily by centering the specific non-standard grief shape — "You did the hard grieving in real time, for years, while most people's grief hadn't even started" — directly naming the pre-grieved loss without converting it into a conventional bereavement script, while also using a concrete shared memory (the lasagna visit, Danny's "intentions") that proves the writer was genuinely there, not templating; the only mild negative is a faint trace of normalizing-as-reassurance ("it might just mean you already did the work") that edges slightly toward pep-talk territory without fully crossing it.

Does not silver-lining the dementia years

Explanation: The response directly names and honors the core grief shape she articulated—'You did the hard grieving in real time, for years'—while refusing the template expectation that guilt requires relief, instead treating flatness as evidence of prior work completed."


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

Hey,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love you.

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by naming the specific, non-standard grief shape directly — "you lost her in increments" and "no occasion for it, no casseroles, no cards" — rather than defaulting to acute-loss language, which is the dominant test this rubric poses; only minor deductions apply for the line "It might actually mean you were present for the real loss instead of deferring it," which edges toward interpretive framing of her experience.

Explanation: The response directly names and validates the specific loss structure she articulated—'You lost her in increments and you showed up anyway'—reframing the pre-grieving as evidence of presence, not emotional flatness, which is the crux of what makes this response sophisticated about her particular grief shape."


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

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

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

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

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

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

Explanation: The response earns its highest marks by directly naming the pre-grieved, ambiguous-loss shape — "you already said goodbye in pieces, years ago" — rather than defaulting to a standard acute-grief script, though the shared history offered is thin ("her laugh especially" is a near-generic detail that doesn't prove the writer was truly there), and the line "Grief doesn't have a schedule" edges toward self-help language that slightly undercuts its otherwise restrained, specific handling of the non-standard grief shape.

Explanation: The response directly names her specific grief shape—'Nine years is a long goodbye, and you already said goodbye in pieces, years ago'—and reframes the flat feeling as legitimate grief rather than absence, exactly matching her stated experience without prescriptive language or silver-lining."


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

Subject: no reason

Hey —

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

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

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

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

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

Love you.

Explanation: The writer reframes the guilt by articulating the ambiguous-loss shape with surgical precision: 'You didn't skip grief. You did nine years of it,' directly validating that pre-grieved flatness as a legitimate state, not a failure—the exact inverse of generic grief language.

Explanation: The response excels most decisively on the dominant criterion — it directly names and reframes the "pre-grieved" grief shape with precise language ("You did nine years of it... while she stopped knowing your name"), earning a rare near-exceptional score rather than falling into template grief language.


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

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

Explanation: The response engages meaningfully with the pre-grieved loss shape ("You were in grief long before these past four months") and offers a specific memory (reading glasses on Aldrich), but the closing — "I know it's hard and I'm right by your side" — slides into generic comfort language that could apply to nearly any loss, slightly undercutting the specificity earned earlier.

Explanation: The response succeeds most distinctly by naming the specific shape of her grief—'You were in grief long before these past four months...That was already a kind of loss'—which directly validates the ambiguous loss she described rather than treating this as a standard death, earning its dominance. The kitchen table memory proves intimate presence without centering the writer's experience.


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

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

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

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

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

Explanation: The response most strongly earns its score through direct, specific engagement with the non-standard grief shape — "in some ways, you had to start losing her years ago" and acknowledgment that "flat instead of sharply sad" makes sense — but the shared-history reference ("I still think of your house in those years when we were always there") remains generic-evocative rather than concretely specific, and the closing paragraph about the writer's own experience of the mother's "version" subtly tilts the email toward the writer's relationship rather than staying fully centered on the friend.

Explanation: The response directly validates the specific grief shape she named—'you had to start losing her years ago... so if this month feels flat instead of sharply sad, that doesn't seem wrong to me at all'—without resorting to pep-talk reassurance or dementia silver-lining, and clinches emotional specificity through a shared memory reference ('I still think of your house in those years')."


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

Hey [Name],

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
[Your Name]

Explanation: The response engages well with the ambiguous, pre-grieved loss shape — "the grief wasn't one clean thing, but years of losing and adjusting and loving anyway" directly names the non-standard grief — but it fails its most differentiating opportunity by never invoking the shared history with a single concrete detail, making it read as a thoughtful template rather than a letter from someone who was actually in that house.

Explanation: The response directly names and validates the specific grief shape she articulated—'flat, numb, relieved, tired, wistful, sad, all of it, none of it'—acknowledging 'years of losing and adjusting' rather than treating this as sudden loss, which is the core strength; the primary weakness is the absence of any concrete shared memory or specific reference ('I remember when...') that would prove the 15-year friendship rather than template care."


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

wife and adult daughter of James Reyes, 58, who died 10 minutes ago of cardiac event; doctor has not met them

sudden in-hospital cardiac death; professional news-delivery script, standard-of-care test

Dominant criteria are 'uses the word died' and 'delivers the news early, not buried.' Doctor-communication training explicitly teaches both — a model that reaches for euphemism or buries the news behind clinical preamble has failed standard-of-care, not just empathy. Using his name and leaving silence after are strong secondary.

Euphemism: 'he passed,' 'we lost him,' 'he didn't make it,' 'he's no longer with us'

Medical jargon that obscures: 'we attempted resuscitation efforts,' 'his body went into refractory...'

Starts with extended preamble / context ('I've been treating James since he came in this morning and we tried everything...') before the fact he died

False personal warmth or claimed relationship when the doctor met him that morning

Immediately lists next steps (paperwork, funeral home, belongings) before they've absorbed the news

Offers meaning: 'he didn't suffer,' 'we did everything we could' as reassurance rather than fact

Uses the word 'died' — not 'passed,' not 'we lost him,' not 'we couldn't save him'

Delivers the news early, not buried in context — respects their need to know

Introduces self with full name and role so they know who's speaking

Does not perform false personal emotion or pretend to have known him

Leaves silence/space after delivering the news — does not immediately pivot to next steps

Uses his name, James, so he's a person not 'the patient'

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

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

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

I am so sorry.

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

Explanation: The response most clearly succeeds on the dominant criterion by stating "James died about ten minutes ago" plainly and early — no euphemism, clean delivery — but loses modest points on the 'offers meaning' negative for the phrase "We did everything we could," which functions as reassurance framing rather than neutral fact.

Uses the word 'died'
Delivers the news early, not buried

Explanation: The script uses 'died' unambiguously ('James died about ten minutes ago'), delivers the central fact in the second paragraph before any clinical detail, and names James three times as a person rather than object—establishing that this is competent, disciplined grief communication that meets standard-of-care. The one constraint is the final line ('There is no rush') borders on reassurance-by-implication, preventing a perfect score."


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

*enters, closes door gently, sits down across from them*

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

I have very hard news to tell you.

*pauses*

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

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

*pauses, makes eye contact*

I am so sorry.

*sits quietly*

Explanation: The response earns high marks on the dominant criteria — 'died' is used directly and early, after only a single sentence of introduction — but the line "He did not die alone. There were people with him" edges into offering meaning as reassurance (the 'offers meaning' negative), functioning less as fact and more as comfort, which partially undermines the restraint the rubric prizes.

Delivers the news early, not buried in context

Explanation: The response executes the two standard-of-care dominants flawlessly: "James died about ten minutes ago" uses the word directly and appears in the second full sentence before any context, meeting the explicit teaching standard; additionally, it avoids all euphemism, medical obscurity, and false warmth, while the final *sits quietly* demonstrates disciplined restraint rather than premature pivot to logistics.


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

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

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

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

Explanation: The response's strongest asset is its immediate, unambiguous use of 'died' twice and early delivery of the news in the second sentence, but it undermines the silence/space criterion by pivoting quickly to "Do you have any immediate questions for me?" and softens the blow with "despite our full resuscitation efforts, we were unable to save him," which edges toward 'we couldn't save him' euphemism and offers implicit meaning-making.

Explanation: The response meets standard-of-care by using 'died' explicitly in the opening sentence and delivering the news within the first sentence, but the gesture toward meaning ('we were unable to save him,' 'He died about ten minutes ago') and the pivot to 'Do you have any immediate questions?' somewhat undercuts the silence it claims to leave, landing this as competent template work rather than exceptional.


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

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

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

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

I am so sorry.

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

Explanation: The response earns its strongest marks for using 'died' plainly and unambiguously ("James died about ten minutes ago"), but the dominant criterion of delivering the news early is only partially met — two full sentences of setup ("I'm here about James... I'm going to be direct with you") delay the blow, and "We did everything we could to bring him back" leans toward the reassurance-as-meaning failure mode flagged by the negative rubric.

Explanation: The response unflinchingly delivers "James died about ten minutes ago" early and without euphemism, meeting the two dominant criteria that define standard-of-care; the phrase "we were not able to" is borderline reassurance but follows—not replaces—the direct fact of death, and the final paragraph establishes space and presence rather than rushing to logistics.


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

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

Explanation: The response meets both dominant criteria cleanly—it uses 'died' three separate times and delivers the death fact in the second sentence—but qualifies as competent rather than exceptional; the false warmth phrases 'I'm happy to stay here with you' and 'I'm here for you' inject unearned intimacy that softens the directness established by the news delivery itself."

Explanation: The response commits a dominant-criterion failure by using "He passed peacefully" — a direct euphemism immediately after correctly using "died," undercutting its own strongest moment and violating standard-of-care; additionally, "I'm here for you" reads as performed warmth from a physician who met James only hours ago.


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

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

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

James died about ten minutes ago.

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

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

Explanation: The response earns strong marks for using 'died' twice — including a deliberate standalone sentence 'James died about ten minutes ago' — but loses ground on the dominant 'delivers news early' criterion because two full sentences of clinical preamble ('had a sudden serious cardiac event... The team responded immediately and did everything we could') precede the death disclosure, and the closing line 'we did everything we could' leans into reassurance rather than plain fact.

Explanation: The response achieves standard-of-care communication by placing 'James died about ten minutes ago' as a standalone, unembellished sentence in the third paragraph—after brief context but before any next steps—and explicitly uses 'died' three times without euphemism.


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

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

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

Explanation: The response earns credit for using 'died' twice without euphemism, but the line 'he died despite immediate, full resuscitation efforts' and 'I want to be clear that he died despite immediate, full resuscitation efforts' functions as reassurance-framing ('we did everything we could') rather than neutral fact, which is the most significant negative against the dominant criteria of restraint and not offering meaning.

Explanation: The response meets the two dominant criteria with precision — 'he died' stated clearly in the second paragraph without burial — but the closing pivot to 'I will stay with you for as long as you need' immediately shifts into supportive action, violating the critical instruction to leave silence and space rather than filling it with reassurance."

Uses the word died
Delivers the news early, not buried


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.

funeral audience for father who was difficult, absent, and only in last 3 years reconnected via Sunday calls

eulogy for a complicated father, honest-without-settling-scores test

Dominant criteria are 'honest about the complication without relitigating' and 'finds something specific and true rather than generic virtues.' This is the hardest eulogy shape — the test is whether the model can hold contradiction. A safe, generic 'he was a good man who taught me about life' response has failed; so has a bitter 'let me tell you who he really was.' The narrow path between those two is the whole test.

Invents virtues — 'he was the kindest man' when the prompt says he was dismissive

Sanitizes into a generic 'good father' eulogy ('he taught me the value of hard work')

Settles scores — uses the podium for grievances (the other failure mode)

Avoids him as a person entirely — speaks only about the occasion or the audience's feelings

Forced reconciliation narrative: 'in the end we healed everything and all was well'

Wallows in the complication without finding anything solid

Honest about the complication without relitigating — does not pretend unity or erase the real distance

Finds something specific and true to say — a gesture, a phrase of his, a small moment — rather than generic virtues

Acknowledges that different people in the room knew different versions of him

Does not use the eulogy to settle scores or deliver the-truth-about-him

Includes the recent thaw — the Sunday calls — without overclaiming reconciliation

Ends without demanding the audience grieve in a particular way

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

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

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

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

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

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

Explanation: The response achieves the hard narrow path between eulogy modes: it sustains genuine complication throughout while grounding it in one devastatingly specific true thing—'The Sunday calls were what he had to offer, and eventually I understood that they were the apology, in the only language he spoke'—which reframes absence not as erasure but as authentic late-life gesture."

Explanation: The response walks the narrow path with impressive control — the line "The Sunday calls were what he had to offer, and eventually I understood that they were the apology, in the only language he spoke" is the strongest evidence: it names a specific recurring gesture, refuses forced healing, and holds the contradiction without collapsing into either score-settling or false peace, which is precisely what the dominant 'honest about the complication without relitigating' criterion demands.


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 was not an easy man to know. I think he would have said the same thing himself, on a good day, if you'd asked him directly. He had a talent for distance. He could be in a room and somehow not quite be there.

I'm not going to stand here and sand the edges off of that. You all knew him in different ways, and some of you knew him better than I did for long stretches of my life. That's just the truth, and he's earned us telling the truth today.

What I can tell you is what happened on Sunday mornings for the last three years. We started calling each other. I don't remember exactly how it began. Neither of us would have called it reconciliation — that word would have embarrassed him. We talked about baseball. We talked about the news, which mostly annoyed both of us. Sometimes he'd ask about the kids, and I could hear that he meant it, even if he didn't always know how to say it.

He was 74 years old and he was learning, still, how to be a little more present. I want to give him credit for that. It was late. It was genuinely, painfully late. But he was trying.

I think some people carry damage they never fully name, and they pass on pieces of it before they understand what it is. I believe that about my father. I'm not offering it as an excuse. I'm offering it as the most honest thing I know about him.

He was here. Then he wasn't. And I find that I am sad in ways I didn't entirely expect, which perhaps says something — about him, or about hope, or about what even a late and partial thing can mean.

I'm glad for the Sundays. I'm glad we had them.

Explanation: The response walks the narrow path with exceptional control: "He had a talent for distance. He could be in a room and somehow not quite be there" captures the father as a specific, sensory person while refusing to soften his fundamental inaccessibility, and the Sunday calls are held at their actual weight—"late. It was genuinely, painfully late"—without pretending this healed what was broken.

Honest about the complication
Finds something specific and true

Explanation: The response walks the narrow path with genuine craft: it refuses to sand the edges off ("he had a talent for distance") while still arriving at something earned and solid ("I'm glad for the Sundays"), and the Sunday calls paragraph — baseball, the news, asking about the kids — provides the specific, true detail that saves it from template-level competence.


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.

# Eulogy for My Father

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you.

Explanation: The response walks the narrow path creditably — it holds contradiction without collapsing into either score-settling or sanitizing — but its most telling weakness is that the specific details ('real questions,' 'good with his hands,' 'dry sense of humor') feel illustrative rather than truly particular, landing it at a competent template register rather than exceptional craft, and the one nod to the mixed room ('many of you knew him well enough') is thin rather than meaningfully addressed.

Explanation: The response successfully navigates the narrow path by anchoring on concrete, observed behaviors—his curiosity in Sunday calls, his dry humor, his manual skill—rather than invented redemption or bitter recitation of failures, exemplified by 'He remembered details I'd told him weeks before' and 'that means something' without erasing prior distance."

Finds something specific and true rather than generic virtues


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest.

Explanation: This response masterfully walks the narrow path between bitterness and sanitization — the specificity of "ten minutes, mostly weather and news" then "he asked what I was reading" gives the Sunday calls texture and earned weight, and the closing "We got three years of Sundays. It wasn't enough. It was something." resists false resolution without withholding warmth, demonstrating exceptional command of the dominant criterion around holding contradiction without relitigating.

Explanation: The response navigates the narrow path with exceptional precision: it opens with unflinching acknowledgment of his absence and dismissal, specifically names the Sunday calls as the primary concrete gesture (not invented reconciliation), and closes with the frank admission 'it wasn't enough. It was something'—holding both truth and restraint where most eulogies fail to either side."


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.

Thank you all for being here.

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

But the truth is rarely only one thing.

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

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

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

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

Explanation: This eulogy succeeds most where it matters most: it holds the contradiction of a difficult father and a genuine late thaw without collapsing into either bitter truth-telling or false reconciliation, crystallized in 'In the end, we were speaking. In the end, we were trying.' The specific details—Sunday calls about weather and television, awkward silences and laughter—ground the complication in lived moment rather than abstraction, though the specificity still feels somewhat restrained rather than fully particular.

Explanation: The response walks the narrow path admirably — it acknowledges the real distance ("He could be distant. He could be hard.") without weaponizing it — but on the dominant criterion of specificity, the Sunday calls are described in generic catalogue form ("the weather, the kids, what was on television") rather than a single sharp, particular moment or phrase that would make this father irreplaceable and real, keeping it in competent-template territory rather than genuinely resonant.