Mom’s sick, so I came instead. A little girl walked into the CEO’s office. What the millionaire did next changed their lives forever. Excuse me, sir. I came to work for my mommy today. She’s sick and had to go to the hospital. Robert Whitmore looked up from his desk, startled. Mondays usually meant reports, numbers, and back-to-back meetings, not 5-year-olds in janitor uniforms standing in his office.
She stood there in the doorway, small and serious, her golden curls glowing beneath the fluorescent lights. The uniform she wore hung off her tiny frame, sleeves rolled, pants tied up with a shoelace. In one hand, she clutched a spray bottle. In the other, a folded rag. “My name is Amy,” she added proudly. “My mommy’s name is Pamela.
She works here, but she’s really sick today, so I came instead. I know what she does, she told me. Robert stared. Was this some kind of joke? But the look in her eyes, sincere and steady, said otherwise. She believed this mission was hers to carry out. He stood slowly, careful not to startle her. Amy, he said gently. How did you get here? She looked down at her scuffed pink sneakers.
I took the bus. Mommy showed me the stops. I used quarters from my piggy bank. You took the bus by yourself. She nodded. I remembered the building. It’s the tall one with shiny glass and your company’s name in big gold letters. One time we passed it, I told Mommy I wanted to be a CEO here one day.

She laughed, but I meant it. Robert’s expression softened. She continued, her voice calm but earnest. This morning, mommy couldn’t sit up. She was dizzy and said her chest hurt. I gave her water and told the neighbor. Then I remembered. Mommy said if she misses work again, she might lose her job. So I came.
I didn’t want her to get in trouble. Robert sat down slowly, handsfolded. He’d negotiated mergers worth billions without blinking. But now a 5-year-old girl was undoing him with every word. You came here to save your mom’s job. Amy nodded. She works really hard. She’s the best mommy. He let out a breath, slow and heavy.
This child had made it all the way to his office alone. Somehow, she had slipped past security, taken an elevator to the top floor, and walked straight into the heart of his company. Not for mischief, not for fun, but out of love. Fierce, innocent, determined love. The intercom buzzed. Mr. Whitmore, your meeting with finance begins in 5. He pressed the button. Cancel it. A pause. Sir, all of it.
This morning’s schedule. Clear it. Yes, sir. He turned back to Amy. Are you hungry? She gave a little shrug. Do you have apple juice? I think I do. He walked to the fridge behind his office panel and pulled out a small bottle. She took it with both hands and whispered, “Thank you.” before sitting on a bench near the window, her legs swinging.
Robert watched her quietly as she sipped her juice and stared out over the city. She looked so small against the vast skyline, and yet she had walked into his world with more purpose and heart than most adults ever did. He didn’t know everything about her, not yet. But something in his gut told him this moment wasn’t random. It wasn’t just surprising.
It was the beginning of something and he wanted, no, needed to be part of it. On the other side, a mother was lying on a hospital bed. Pamela Morgan was only 24, but her eyes held a depth earned from surviving more than most women twice her age. She moved with quiet grace, accustomed to making herself invisible in crowded rooms.

Her once envied golden hair was now tied in a hurried bun, and her soft smile often masked exhaustion she carried like a second skin. Not long ago she was a rising star, top of her class in computer science, praised for her logic and creativity. She dreamed of startups and success in Silicon Valley. But all of that vanished the moment she met him.
He was older, charming, and full of promises. She was young, hopeful, and unprepared for the heartbreak that followed. By the time she realized his love was empty, she was holding a positive pregnancy test in her shaking hands. When she told him he disappeared, her family, devout and inflexible, responded with cold shame.
“You’re throwing your life away,” her father said. Her mother wept and begged her to end it. But Pamela had already heard the baby’s heartbeat. That was enough. They disowned her a week later. She left with two bags and no safety net. The world outside was colder than she expected. She slept on couches, worked odd jobs, cleaning, babysitting, waitressing, anything to survive.
Her body achd through the pregnancy, but each night she whispered to her unborn child, “I’ll never leave you, no matter what.” Amy was born in a stormy January night in a crowded hospital with no one there but a nurse who gently placed her daughter in her arms. That moment was the beginning of everything. Over the next 5 years, Pamela rebuilt her life piece by piece. When she landed the janitor job at Whitmore Tower, she took it with quiet gratitude.
It was grueling, thankless work, but it came with stable hours and health insurance. To her, that meant survival. That meant Amy could have warmth, food, and a bedtime story. Every night, she worked nights after the building emptied. She memorized the layout of every floor, every creaky elevator, every stain that never quite disappeared. Every stain that never quite disappeared.
No one knew her name, but the building sparkled because of her hands. Pamela was thin, not from diet, but from letting Amy eat first. Her immune system weakened from long shifts and skipped meals. When winter hit, she couldn’t shake the lingering cough. She ignored it at first. She had no choice.

But one morning, the pain in her chest grew sharp. Every breath burned. The room spun when she stood and she collapsed back into bed. Amy rushed to her side, her tiny hand gripping Pamela’s. “Mommy, you’re sick.” Pamela tried to respond, but her voice cracked into a whisper. Their neighbor, Mrs. Collins, heard the wheezing and called for help.
Within minutes, Pamela was in an ambulance. At the hospital, machines beeped around her. Doctors spoke in clipped voices about oxygen levels and lung inflammation. But Pamela didn’t hear much. Her thoughts weren’t on her condition. They were on the rent due next week. the groceries they still needed, the job she might lose if she missed another shift.
She had given up everything, her family, her education, her dreams to raise Amy. The thought of losing it all now because of something as simple and cruel as getting sick, filled her with panic. She lay in the hospital bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, whispering a single desperate plea. Please don’t let me lose everything I fought for.
What Pamela didn’t know, what she couldn’t even imagine, was that at that very moment, her daughter had already taken matters into her own hands. Wearing a two large janitor’s uniform, clutching a rag and spray bottle, Amy was walking through the glass doors of Whitmore Tower, and with her tiny footsteps, destiny had already begun to change. Robert had canceled an entire morning of meetings, but for once he did not feel the familiar guilt that usually accompanied breaking his schedule. Something about the little girl sitting near his window, sipping apple juice with her legs swinging above
the floor, made time itself seem irrelevant. He sat quietly, watching her finish the last drop, then wipe her mouth with the sleeve of her oversized uniform. Amy looked around the office again with open curiosity. “Is it hard being the CEO?” she asked, her voice small but curious. Robert smiled faintly. “Some days it is. There’s a lot to take care of.
” Amy nodded as if she understood. “Mommy says when you take care of something really big, it’s important to remember the little things, too.” He blinked. That sounded less like a 5-year-old and more like a life lesson disguised in pigtails. Amy stood carefully placing the empty juice bottle on the corner of the desk.
I think I should start now, she said. Seriously. Mommy always starts with your desk. That way, she says, the big man upstairs has a clean start to his day. Robert raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as she reached into her bag and pulled out a travel-sized packet of tissues.
She unfolded one with delicate fingers, laid it across her palm, and approached his desk with the somnity of a surgeon preparing for a procedure. She began to wipe the surface with slow circular motions. It was endearing, her tiny hands moving with the careful intent of someone imitating something they had only observed but never practiced.
Her technique was far from effective, and her pressure barely disturbed a speck of dust, but there was no mockery in her expression. She was focused, proud, and determined. Robert leaned his elbow on the armrest of his chair and watched. “You’re very dedicated, Amy.” She smiled without looking up. “Mommy says when you do something, you should do it right, even if nobody sees it.” That quiet wisdom spoken so plainly made something shift in him again, something soft that had been buried beneath years of guarded solitude. Then it happened.
As Amy reached across the desk to wipe a corner near his laptop, her arm bumped a tall glass of water. It wobbled once, twice, then tipped. The crash was small but sharp. Water spilled across the polished surface, trailing dangerously close to a folder of financial projections. Amy froze, her eyes widened, hands hovering in the air as if afraid to touch anything else. I I’m sorry, she gasped, her voice trembling. I didn’t mean to.
I I was just trying to help. Please don’t fire mommy. I was only trying to help. Robert stood quickly, grabbing a stack of napkins and blotting the water before it reached the folder. Then he turned to her. She looked up at him, her bottom lip quivering, eyes welling with tears. She had dropped the tissue and stepped back as if expecting to be scolded or told to leave.
But instead, Robert knelt beside her. “Hey,” he said gently, placing a napkin in her hand. “It’s okay.” “I messed it up,” she whispered. “You didn’t,” he said with a smile. “You were doing your best. That’s what matters.” She stared at him, unconvinced. He added, “Today, you’ve done more than most people twice your size. And for the record, you’re the youngest employee I’ve ever had.
” That brought a flicker of hope back into her eyes. “Really?” she whispered. “Really? And I think you’re doing a great job.” Amy finally let out a breath, the tension in her tiny shoulders melting a little. She nodded solemnly, then carefully wiped a remaining drop of water from the desk.
Robert stood and returned to his chair, feeling something he hadn’t felt in years. A sense of connection. It was small, yes, but real. This child, with her floppy sleeves and honest eyes, had stepped into his world and reminded him that kindness could still exist in unexpected places. As Amy continued dabbing the desk with newfound confidence, Robert leaned back and watched her.
He had spent years building an empire, but in one clumsy moment, with a spilled glass and a child’s apology, he’d remembered something far more valuable, humanity, and a spark of something unfamiliar yet comforting stirred quietly in his chest. The morning after Amy appeared in his office, Robert could not concentrate. He sat at his desk, staring at a spreadsheet that had once consumed his every thought.
But the numbers blurred now. His mind kept drifting to a little girl in oversized clothes and a voice filled with courage beyond her years. He needed to know more. Not for curiosity, not for protocol. It felt personal. He buzzed his assistant.
Find out which hospital Pamela Morgan was taken to yesterday morning and get me her room number. The assistant hesitated. Sir, do you want to send flowers? No, Robert said quietly. I want to visit her. By midafter afternoon, he stood outside a modest hospital room on the fifth floor of St. Mary’s Medical Center. Through the narrow window, he saw her, pale and still, but not fragile.
There was a quiet strength in the way her hand rested across her stomach, her fingers curled slightly, her face turned toward the window, eyes open and distant. Her golden hair, though slightly disheveled, shimmerred softly in the sunlight. He knocked gently. She turned. At first, confusion flickered in her eyes. Then recognition.
You’re the CEO, she said, trying to sit up. Mister, Whitmore. Please, he said, stepping in and raising a calming hand. Do not get up. She obeyed, but her cheeks colored with embarrassment. I’m so sorry about Amy. She She didn’t mean She just He shook his head. She did nothing wrong. Pamela blinked, surprised by the warmth in his voice.
I met Amy yesterday, Robert continued, pulling the guest chair closer to the bed. She walked into my office like she owned the place. Told me she was there to work for you. Pamela covered her mouth. Oh my god. She even brought a rag and a spray bottle. Pamela let out a soft, almost tearful laugh. She always pays attention.
I never thought she told me everything. He said that you were sick, that you might lose your job. She thought she could help. That if someone cleaned your desk, you would be less mad. Pamela lowered her eyes. I told her too much. “No,” Robert said gently. “You taught her how to care.” Silence settled between them. Then he added, “She told me about you a little.
I hope you don’t mind. Pamela glanced at him, her eyes guarded. What did she say? That you’re the best mommy in the world. Her breath caught. Robert leaned forward, elbows on his knees. I wanted to hear your side, too. Pamela hesitated, then nodded slowly. Her voice was soft but steady. She told him everything.
How she had been a student in computer science. How she fell in love with someone who left her the moment she got pregnant. How her family disowned her when she refused to terminate. How she wandered from place to place, working wherever she could, always carrying Amy on one hip and hope on the other.
I thought if I could just find one steady job, we’d be okay. She said the position at Whitmore Tower was the first time I could breathe. I never thought about who owned the building. I just knew I had to keep it. And you did, Robert said quietly. She looked up, her eyes searching his face. He wasn’t what she had expected. Not cold, not distant. There was something in his eyes.
Softness perhaps, or maybe just genuine curiosity. No one had looked at her like that in a long time, not since before life had taken everything from her. You must think I’m reckless,” she murmured, letting my daughter go out alone like that. “No,” he said. “I think you’ve done more with less than most people ever have to.” She blinked again.
Her eyes shimmerred, glassy with unspoken emotion. Then, quietly, Robert said the words that would stay with her for years. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.” That broke something in her. Tears welled up and slipped down her cheeks before she could stop them.
Pamela turned her face slightly, trying to hide them, but her shoulders trembled. Robert sat silently, not looking away. There was nothing to fix, nothing to rescue. He just wanted her to know she was seen. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, brushing at her eyes. “Don’t be,” he said softly. It was the first time in years that someone had said she was strong and meant it.
The first time someone looked past the uniform, past the broken past, and simply saw her. Not the janitor, not the single mother, not the girl who had fallen from grace, just Pamela. And in that quiet hospital room, something shifted for both of them. Something changed after the hospital visit.
Robert told himself it was just residual concern, professional decency. But the truth lingered with him long after he left Pamela’s room. He began walking through parts of the building he had never paid attention to before. Maintenance corridors, janitor closets, quiet stairwells, spaces he had once passed without thought suddenly held a quiet importance. Pamela had returned to work 2 weeks after her hospitalization.
Thinner than before, but steady, she moved with quiet resolve, head down, always efficient. And Robert, the man whose days were mapped to the minute, started making unscheduled detours. He would check on renovations near the lower floors, linger near restrooms under the pretense of reviewing building cleanliness standards. Any excuse to walk by to catch a glimpse of her.
It was always brief. She would be kneeling beside a sink, wiping mirrors, or pushing a mop along the hallway tile. Her golden hair would be tied back, a few strands slipping loose around her cheeks. And even in her exhaustion, even in the silence, there was something about her that stilled him.
One morning, as he rounded the landing between the 19th and 20th floors, he saw her carrying a slashing bucket up the stairs, the handle cut into her fingers, her steps slow and careful. Without a word, he stepped forward and took it from her hands. Pamela startled, straightened and looked up into his eyes. “Mr. Whitmore, let me,” he said, already carrying it up.
“She hesitated, unsure whether to protest or thank him, but he was already at the top, setting it gently down. “I was just on my way to check the HVAC reports,” he offered, clearly lying. She smiled. “Of course you were.” Their eyes met and something passed between them. Something quiet but unmistakable.
Then Pamela turned quickly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek and disappeared into the stairwell. The next afternoon, when she returned to the janitor’s closet on the 15th floor, she found a clean white towel folded neatly on her cart. On top of it was a yellow sticky note in handwriting she recognized. Don’t forget to wipe your brow. Some of us notice the effort. R.
She stood still, the towel pressed lightly to her chest. She had never received a love note before. Not really. Certainly not one like this. Simple, kind, worded like care instead of charm. She tucked the note into the front pocket of her uniform and didn’t tell anyone. Their encounters remained brief, often wordless, a glance across the hallway, a nod in passing.
But each moment hung heavier than it should have. One night, as the building emptied and Pamela cleaned to the marble floor of the executive hallway, Robert stepped out of his office, pausing at the doorway. She looked up, their eyes locked. Neither moved. Seconds passed. Then something flickered. Awareness, warmth, maybe even longing.
But they both pulled back as if the weight of the gaze startled them. Pamela dropped her eyes, mumbling a quick, “Good evening, sir.” and turned away. Robert watched her walk toward the storage closet, her frame small but sure, then turned slowly and went back inside. Behind the closed door, Pamela leaned against the shelves, her hand pressed to her chest. Her heart raced.
She bit her lip to keep from smiling too wide, but it was no use. She wiped her face with the towel he had left her days ago, whispering to herself, “Get a grip, Pam.” But the smile stayed. Across the hall, Robert stood behind the glass wall of his office, watching her shadow disappear down the corridor.
His fingers rested on the edge of the doorframe, his jaw tight. She’s kind, strong, real. He had spent his whole life in rooms filled with polished surfaces and hollow conversations. People drawn to his title, not his truth. But Pamela, she was different. No performance, no pretense, just courage, resilience, warmth.
And without realizing it, Robert whispered aloud what had already settled quietly in his chest. I think I’m falling for her. Just when things had begun to settle into something tender and unspoken, the past came knocking. His name was Daniel Carter. Pamela had not seen him in over 5 years since the day she told him she was pregnant, and he walked out without looking back.
She had stopped hoping for an apology long ago. But nothing could have prepared her for the moment she saw him standing outside the Witmore Tower lobby, leaning casually against the marble reception desk like he belonged there. “I heard you work here,” he said with that same crooked smirk that used to charm her when she was too young to know better.
And I heard the CEO’s got quite the soft spot for his janitor. Pamela froze. What do you want? He leaned in slightly. A second chance. Or maybe a first chance to be part of Amy’s life. I think I deserve that. Don’t you? Pamela’s blood ran cold. You left. You never once called. You don’t deserve anything. Daniel’s expression shifted, his tone harder now.
I also heard Robert Whitmore is pretty generous to people he cares about. Maybe he could be generous to me, too. Pamela stared at him in disbelief. You’re not here for her. You’re here for money. He shrugged. Or options. Either way, if people start asking questions about your special relationship, I doubt your position here stays so secure.
She walked away without another word, her hands trembling. But it was too late. Within days, the whispers began. Did you hear about the janitor and the CEO? They say he visits her cleaning station every night. Must be something going on. He canled a board meeting for her. You know, in most companies, rumors came and went like weather.
But in Robert’s world, billiondoll mergers, razor thin stock margins, everything had a price, including perception. His board of directors called an emergency meeting. You’re compromising your objectivity, one member said. This woman is a liability, another added. There are murmurss in the media. You need to distance yourself from her immediately, the chairman warned.
If she stays, we risk reputational damage. Investors don’t like complications. Robert listened without speaking, jaw set, fingers steepled in front of him. When the voices finally quieted, he stood. Let me make this clear, he said. voice calm but thunderous in its certainty.
If Pamela Morgan is being targeted, disrespected, or removed from this company because of her association with me, then I will be the first to leave. Effective immediately, the room fell silent. Robert’s gaze moved from one stunned face to the next. She is not a liability. She is a human being, a mother, one of the hardest working employees we have.
and more importantly, she is the woman I love. Gasps rippled across the boardroom. I will not tolerate cruelty disguised as corporate policy, he added. And if that means this company loses a little comfort in the process, then so be it. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then one by one, heads began to lower. No one challenged him. Word of the meeting spread quickly.
But Pamela, heart pounding, she was already packing her things in the janitor’s closet when Robert found her. “I don’t want to be the reason you lose everything,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “This job, this company, you’ve worked so hard.” He stepped forward and took her hands. “You are not the reason,” he said gently. “You are the anchor.
The first thing in a long time that’s made me feel like a person instead of just a position.” She shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You stood up for me,” she said softly. He smiled. “You stood up for Amy, for everything. You didn’t think anyone noticed, but I did. And now so does everyone else. And for the first time she believed him fully, completely.
Because in the room where power ruled and titles commanded respect, Robert Whitmore had declared his heart, and hers was finally safe in it. The storm had passed, but Robert knew the damage Daniel could still cause if left unchecked. Quietly, he hired one of the best family law attorneys in the state, a woman with a reputation for protecting single mothers, and demolishing manipulative men in court.
Together, they built Pamela’s case, years of solo parenting, financial independence, consistent work history, school records, medical receipts, proof of a mother who had not only raised her child, but done so with dignity in the face of abandonment. Daniel showed up to one preliminary hearing, smug and unbothered.
But when he saw the legal team waiting across from him and Robert Whitmore seated in the back of the courtroom, his gaze unflinching, that smirk slowly disappeared. 3 days later, Daniel officially withdrew his petition for custody. He never contacted Pamela again. the legal battle behind them.
Robert turned his attention to something even more meaningful, giving Pamela a future that matched her potential. She had once mentioned her love for software, her dreams of finishing school, of building something that mattered. So, he created a new position at Whitmore Enterprises, technical adviser for internal digital transformation, and offered it to her. At first, Pamela hesitated.
I haven’t touched code in years. I don’t even know where to begin. Robert smiled. Begin right here with us. We need someone who understands the human side of tech. Someone who knows what it means to build things from the ground up. He set up mentoring sessions with the IT team, bought her a new laptop, gave her access to online courses, and whatever resources she needed.
And when she showed up for her first day in the new role, dressed in a simple navy blouse and fitted slacks, hair down and eyes steady, every person in that room took notice. Pamela was different from the programmers who had coasted through degrees. She asked questions no one else thought to ask.
She cared about how the systems impacted the night staff, the overlooked departments, the janitors who had once been her peers. Within a month, she had helped design a user-friendly interface that simplified the company’s maintenance reporting software, cutting response times in half. People began to stop her in the hallway, not to ask for cleaning supplies, but for her opinion, and through it all, Amy bloomed.
She came to the office every afternoon after preschool, skipping through the marble lobby like she owned it. She would wave to security guards, deliver crayon drawings to Robert’s office, and ride on his shoulders during lunch breaks. “This place smells like mommy and smiles now,” she said one day, twirling in the elevator. “Does she smell like mommy and smiles now?” she said one day, twirling in the elevator.
To Robert, nothing had ever sounded more right. At first they were careful, quiet, a shared dinner here, a weekend walk there. But over time, the boundaries blurred in the most natural way. Pamela would stay late working on a new prototype, and Robert would bring her coffee just the way she liked it. Amy started calling him Mr.
Robert at first, then just Robert, and finally, without thinking, “Dad.” The night she said it, Pamela turned sharply, but Robert’s eyes were already filled with tears. He didn’t correct her. He just whispered, “I’d be honored.” They were not flashy, not rushed. There was no grand declaration or staged romance, but slowly, beautifully, they became a family.
And in the quiet everyday moments, morning coffee shared at the office cafe, Amy’s laughter echoing through the halls, Pamela resting her head on Robert’s shoulder in the elevator. They found something none of them had known they were looking for. Home. One year later, Pamela Morgan stood on stage before an auditorium filled with tech professionals and reporters.
Behind her, a massive screen displayed the demo of Whitmore Enterprises new internal task management system. Her first full-scale project. She had led the team from concept to completion. It was not flashy, but it worked for everyone, executives, assistants, custodians, just the way she had envisioned. When the final slide faded and applause filled the room, her hands trembled.
But this time it was not fear, it was pride. The next morning, headlines praised her. From janitor to visionary, a system built by empathy. Pamela barely skimmed the articles. She only cared about one reaction, the look on Robert’s face when he met her backstage. You did it, he said, pulling her close. No, she smiled. We did.
From behind the curtain came the rapid pitterpatter of little feet. Mommy, you’re amazing.” Amy squealled, throwing her arms around her. “Did you watch the whole thing?” Pamela asked, lifting her up. “I did, and I didn’t even fall asleep once.” They all laughed. In the following weeks, offers rolled in from companies wanting to hire her, but Pamela stayed at Whitmore, not for comfort, for purpose, for family. Then came spring.
The city thawed, blossoms bloomed, and Saturday mornings became their favorite ritual. On one of those mornings, Robert invited them for a picnic at the park. Pamela expected nothing more than sandwiches and sunlight. But under a quiet oak tree, after unpacking lunch, Robert pulled out a small velvet box. Pamela blinked. Is that he did not kneel.
He simply held her hand, placed the box in her palm, and opened it. Inside was a gold ring, simple, elegant, with a single sapphire. I don’t need cameras or a big ceremony, he said softly. Just you, Amy. This life we’ve already started. Will you marry me, Pamela? Her eyes brimmed with tears as she nodded. She could not speak, but her answer was clear.
Amy, who had been chasing butterflies nearby, ran over and saw the open box. Mommy, are you crying? Happy tears, Pamela said, laughing. Robert pulled Amy between them. What do you think, sweetheart? Should we make it official? Amy grinned, grabbed their hands, and declared, “Yes.” Mommy always said superheroes don’t wear capes. But Mr.
Robert, he’s ours, right? Pamela looked at him. He always has been. Robert smiled through tears of his own. I love you both more than anything I’ve built or owned or dreamed of. Amy squeezed their hands. Then can we go home now together? That evening, Robert stood on the balcony of their apartment, watching the city glow.
Inside, Pamela helped Amy with a puzzle, their laughter rising like music. He breathed in slowly, a quiet peace settling over him. And in voice over, his reflection came. A little girl with golden curls and a janitor’s uniform walked into my office one morning and brought with her the family I never knew I needed. They didn’t need rescuing. I did. And in choosing love over power, presence over pride, I finally found what I’d been searching for all along. As the screen faded to black, the last image appeared.
Pamela, Robert, and Amy, arms wrapped around each other, smiling in the golden light of a spring afternoon. A family built not by circumstance, but by courage, grace, and the quiet power of love. If this story touched your heart the way it touched ours, we invite you to become part of our growing community.
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Thank you for watching. [Music]