Dakota hadn’t expected to like the new hire so quickly. He was clearly out of his depth in America, his accent thick, his mannerisms stiff with caution. Yet he carried himself with kindness, never once letting confusion spill into mockery or judgment. She noticed the way he listened whether to her or to the others in the office, and in a world that often overlooked her, that alone felt like a rare grace. On her drive to her parents’ house, she whispered a quiet prayer, thanking God for the reminder that respect and gentleness still existed.

The backyard smelled of smoke and spice when she arrived, her father manning the grill while her mother laid out dishes on the long picnic table. Laughter from cousins and nieces carried through the air. Dakota felt warmth at the sight, then steadied her courage.

“I invited someone from work,” she said, almost too casually. Both parents looked up. She hesitated, then added, “He’s white.”

The shift was instant. Her mother froze with a tray of corn still in her hands; her father’s spatula stilled mid-turn. The silence pressed heavy. Dakota’s heart thudded, but she raised her chin. “He’s a good man,” she said, voice calm though her palms trembled. “He treats me with respect and i am pretty sure he is Christian too.” Her faith told her this was the moment to be steadfast, and so she held their gaze, praying silently that love—both divine and human—would be enough to bridge the gap.