Here’s a much shorter version that keeps the heart of the story intact:
Six months ago, I never imagined my architecture career would involve more coffee runs than blueprints. But then I started working for Mr. Miles—a brilliant architect, but a nightmare boss.
Take last Tuesday. Before I could sit down, he tossed me his Porsche keys and told me to handle the mechanic, fielded calls from his ex, delivered cufflinks, and even posed as his “junior partner” in a design meeting.
Mid-meeting, he called. His daughter, Chloe, was sick at school—I had to pick her up and stay with her. No mention of architecture. Just, “Don’t go in the basement.”
Chloe was pale and quiet. On the drive, she mumbled, “I need Rodger… Dad left him in the basement.” I froze. Rodger? Her brother?
When we got to the house, curiosity—and worry—got the better of me. The basement wasn’t creepy at all. It was a fairytale playroom, filled with toys, fairy lights, and soft colors. Chloe followed me down and showed me a picture. “That’s Rodger,” she said. “But he’s in heaven now. He had cancer.”
Tears welled up. This space wasn’t hiding something dark—it was built from grief and love. Mr. Miles came home and found me there. Instead of yelling, he finally dropped his tough act. He admitted the room was hard for him. He apologized.
I told him I’d been thinking about quitting. He surprised me again—offering real work, blueprints, feedback, and trust.
“Thanks for sticking around,” he said before walking upstairs.
“Don’t be late tomorrow,” he added.
Maybe this job is more than errands after all.