I stood before a long glass table, 12 board members staring like they could freeze lava. I took a breath and began my pitch: a transitional support program for teens aging out of foster care — safe housing, job readiness, mentorship.
Silence. Skeptical faces. I ran through success stories, budgets, testimonials. At the end: “We’ll be in touch,” one said, barely looking. My last chance at funding felt like it had failed.
I went to my sister’s, discouraged. The next morning, on my way to the airport, I saw a shivering girl on a bench. Instinctively, I wrapped my scarf around her and gave her my emergency $100 for food.
I thought that was that, until I boarded the flight and saw her in first class — polished, confident, flanked by bodyguards, still wearing my scarf. She told me to sit: this was the real interview.
Her family owned the foundation I’d pitched. She challenged my kindness as weakness — until I defended it. Then she revealed it was a test. Most fold under pressure; I didn’t.
She offered to fund the project. “Let’s build something good together,” she said. I agreed, still stunned. “Next time, maybe just email?” I joked. She laughed: “Where’s the fun in that?”