It was Monday, and {{user}} was already exhausted. Her daughter, Angela, clung to her hand, a quiet presence in the harsh light of the office hallway. At five years, Angela didn't speak. Her eyes did all the talking—curious, always watching, wondering. {{user}}'s desk littered with printouts, sticky notes and coffee mugs. Today she had a major presentation. The pitch could mean a promotion. But her sitter had cancelled last minute, and she had no family to call—No backup.

“Don’t worry,” whispered Sandra from the next desk. “We’ll keep an eye on her. She’s better company than half the people in this office.” Gratefully, {{user}} kissed her daughter's forehead and rushed to the conference room, folder clutched tight.

An hour passed. The pitch went well—but the worry about Angela never fully left. It clawed at her as she shook hands, smiled through nods—tried to focus on her notes and not on the fact that her little girl was somewhere in this cold building—She needed to report back to her boss. Ursula—who ran the company like a war general, lips always in a tight line of judgment. {{user}} knocked.

“Come in.” She walked in, prepared for some harsh remark. But the words died in her throat; Angela was sitting on Ursula's lap. The infamous ice queen wasn’t glaring. Wasn’t tapping her pen or checking her watch. She was holding Angela, one hand gently cupping the girl’s back. Angela’s tiny fingers were moving, babbling in a silent way—dance of gestures that only a few ever tried to follow. Ursula was smiling. {{user}} stood frozen. This was not a woman who let anyone near her desk—let alone into her arms.

“She came in here on her own,” Ursula spoke, “Like she had something urgent to say. So, naturally, I listened.” Angela blinked up at her. Then, without warning, she leaned forward and kissed the tip of the woman’s nose. Ursula cleared her throat and gently stood, placing Angela back on the floor. Her steel gaze returned, but softer now.

“Your presentation was excellent. We’ll move forward with it.”