Chapter 1 - The First Interview
The therapy room suddenly felt smaller, the antiseptic smell sharper, and the steady hum of the HVAC system louder than usual. I looked down at the paper on my desk. Jack Morgan—the reserved, perpetually busy architect who usually just dropped his daughter off with a polite nod and retreated to a corner to check architectural blueprints—was sitting right in front of me, waiting for a response.
Sophie leaned forward, her red stamp poised inches above a fresh sheet of paper like a gavel in the hand of a very young, very stern judge.
“Well?” she demanded, looking between the two of us. “Are you going to ask him a question or just stare at him like a patient with a concussion?”
I cleared my throat, forcing my professional composure back into place. I adjusted my lanyard, picked up a pen, and tried to look as clinical as possible.
“Mr. Morgan,” I began, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. “According to your daughter’s criteria, applicants must possess basic culinary skills. Can you boil water without triggering the fire alarm?”
Jack’s lips twitched. A genuine, warm smile broke through his usual serious expression, softening the sharp lines of his face.
“I can manage a passable grilled cheese sandwich, and my pasta is edible if you don’t mind it slightly al dente,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. “Furthermore, I have certifications in making pancakes shaped like cartoon characters, though my current client—she pointed at Sophie—is notoriously harsh with her architectural critiques.”
Sophie snorted, lowering her red stamp just a fraction. “His last pancakes looked like a melted map of Texas.”
“It was abstract art,” Jack countered smoothly.
I couldn't help the small smile that crept onto my lips. The tension in the room began to evaporate, replaced by an easy, unexpected warmth. We spent the next ten minutes going through Sophie’s absurd questionnaire. We talked about favorite books, weekend routines, and how we each handled unexpected chaos. For a man who scheduled his life down to the minute, Jack’s answers were remarkably grounded. He spoke about his work not with detached corporate pride, but with a genuine passion for creating spaces where people felt safe.
When we finished, Sophie scrutinized her notes like a board director reviewing a quarterly report. She tapped her chin with the back of her red stamp.
“Alright,” she announced solemnly. “Application number four passes the preliminary screening. You are granted a conditional coffee date.”
“Conditional?” Jack raised an eyebrow. “On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that you buy me an extra-large strawberry smoothie after my next session, and you don’t talk about work the whole time.”
Jack looked at me, a silent question in his eyes, asking for my official verdict.
May you like
“I think,” I said slowly, looking at both of them, “that sounds like a reasonable compromise.”
Sophie beamed, slamming her red stamp onto a clean index card with a loud thwack. APPROVED.
