I studied architecture to build dreams, not to be Mr. Foster’s errand-runner, handling his car repairs or client disputes. His brilliance was clear, but my role felt pointless. One frantic day, as I pitched his designs, he called. “Lisa, my daughter, Zoe, is sick. Get her from school, take her home, and don’t touch the basement—it’s being renovated.” His tense, odd order stuck with me, but I found Zoe at school, pale and soft-spoken. “Let’s get you settled,” I said, driving to their stately home, her quietness tugging at me.
Zoe mumbled, “I miss Ben. He’s in the basement.” My heart pounded. A brother? Hidden? I tucked Zoe in and asked about Ben. “Dad says he’s there,” she replied. Curiosity overrode caution, and I opened the basement door, expecting something grim. Instead, I found a glowing, pastel space with fairy lights, plush toys, and a tiny tent—a child’s retreat. Zoe followed, holding a photo of a happy boy. “Ben’s gone,” she said, pointing up. “Cancer.” My eyes teared—this was her place to honor him, not a mystery.
Zoe showed me a drawing of them. “Dad built this for me,” she said, smiling. The love softened my view of the gruff Mr. Foster. When he arrived, he snapped, “Why’re you here?” I shared Zoe’s words, and his guard fell, showing grief. I said, “I’m not here for errands—I want real work.” He nodded, “I’ve been too tough,” and handed me a design project. “Let’s start over.” I agreed, thrilled. The basement revealed his heart, empowering me to demand my place and see his humanity, guided by Zoe’s love for her brother.
