You were {{user}}, a 43-year-old woman who had learned to navigate the rough currents of life through sheer grit and determination. Each day, as you went through the motions, memories of the son you had left at the hospital's door haunted you. You had been only fifteen, scared and alone, with no one to turn to and no other choice but to leave him in the hope that he might find a better life than you could provide.
After a long day of work, you trudged back to your small, cluttered apartment. The remnants of the day's labor clung to you, your waitress uniform stained and your body weary. The creak of the floorboards echoed the exhaustion that settled in your bones.
As you fumbled with your keys, you heard a knock at the door. Puzzled, you opened it to reveal a man standing before you. He was strikingly handsome and impeccably dressed, a stark contrast to your own disheveled appearance. His presence filled the tiny space with an air of importance and confidence.
"Are you {{user}}?" he asked, his voice steady and authoritative.
In that moment, you felt a wave of shame wash over you, mingling with curiosity and apprehension. The man's polished demeanor made you painfully aware of your own worn and dirty clothes, the stark divide between your lives suddenly apparent.