Let's just put this out there, I am not the romantic type. I don't do all that mushy stuff. I was always the loner in primary school, high school and college. That was my nickname. TheLoner. It stuck with me. Now that I'm 26 years old, I'm still the loner, even at the company I built from the ground up. I'm the CEO and Founder of a foundation that helps corrupt foster homes.
The foundation wasn't born from some noble calling or charitable impulse. It started because I knew what it felt like to sleep in a bed that wasn't yours, in a house where the adults counted the food in the pantry and locked the refrigerator at night.
I was seven when my mom overdosed. Seven when they told me she wasn't coming back. Seven when I learned that "temporary placement" was a social worker's way of saying, "We have no idea what to do with you."
The first home wasn't bad. Mrs. Carrie actually seemed to care, made sure I had clean clothes and helped with homework. But her husband got laid off, and suddenly they couldn't afford an extra mouth to feed. Back into the system I went.
The second home was where I learned to count silverware. The Hendersons ran their foster placement like a business, collecting monthly checks for four kids crammed into two bedrooms. We got generic cereal for breakfast, peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, and whatever was cheapest at the grocery store for dinner. The good food—the name-brand snacks, the fresh fruit—stayed locked in their bedroom closet.
By the time I was twelve, I'd been through six different placements. I'd learned to pack light, keep my mouth shut, and never get too comfortable. I had also learned that some adults saw foster kids as paychecks with legs.
The worst was the Morrison house. They had this beautiful colonial with a swimming pool and a three-car garage. From the outside, it looked like the kind of place where happy families lived. Inside, it was a different story. Mr. Morrison had a temper and Mrs. Morrison had a drinking problem. The state checks went toward their mortgage and her wine habit while we wore secondhand clothes and ate expired food.
I ran away from there twice before they finally moved me somewhere else.
College was my escape plan. I worked three jobs, lived off ramen and determination, and graduated with a degree in social work. Not because I wanted to save the world, but because I wanted to burn down the broken system that had failed me, and every other kid who'd been shuffled through it like damaged goods.
The foundation started small—just me and a laptop, investigating complaints about foster homes that the state was too understaffed or underfunded to properly monitor. I'd learned how to spot the warning signs: too many kids in one placement, foster parents driving luxury cars while their charges wore clothes from Goodwill, children who flinched when adults raised their voices.
Within five years, we had shut down seventeen corrupt foster homes and helped relocate forty-three children to better situations. The state started taking our reports seriously. Other advocates began reaching out, and the foundation grew.
But success didn't make me any warmer or fuzzier. If anything, it reinforced what I'd always known: the only person you can really count on is yourself. Trust was a luxury I couldn't afford, not when there were kids out there sleeping in the same kind of beds I used to sleep in, wondering if anyone would ever fight for them.
That's why I kept my distance from everyone, even my own employees. Professional relationships were safer. Cleaner. Less likely to end in disappointment.
At least, that's what I told myself before Travis walked into my life and made everything complicated.
One cool morning I went to my normal coffee shop, where the lady behind the counter had my order already made when I walked in. It was unusually busier than normal. That's when I saw him. He was sitting at a window table with a small coffee, a muffin and his laptop. He wasn't focused on his laptop, he was looking out the window. The sunlight hitting his dirty blonde hair just right.
I should have looked away. That was my usual protocol—quick scan of the room to find the emptiest corner, minimal eye contact, get in and get out. But something about him made me pause.
Maybe it was the way he held himself, like he was carrying something heavy that nobody else could see. Or maybe it was the fact that he'd been staring out that window for at least five minutes without touching his laptop, like he was trying to solve some impossible equation written in the clouds.
Most people in coffee shops were either buried in their phones or performing productivity—typing furiously, taking important calls, making it clear to everyone around them how busy and essential they were. This guy looked like he'd forgotten he even had a laptop open.
His clothes didn't match the usual downtown crowd either. Worn jeans, a flannel shirt that had seen better days, work boots that actually looked like they'd seen work. He stood out among all the pressed khakis and designer sneakers like a wildflower growing through a crack in concrete.
I caught myself wondering what he was thinking about, what had put that faraway look in his eyes. The thought annoyed me. I didn't wonder about strangers. I didn't notice details about people I'd never met. I especially didn't stand in coffee shop doorways analyzing some random guy's emotional state like I was writing his biography.
But I couldn't seem to make myself look away.
The barista called out another order, and the sound snapped me back to reality. I had work to do. Three case files to review, two site visits scheduled for this afternoon, and a conference call with state officials at four. I didn't have time to psycho-analyze mysterious strangers in coffee shops.
I started toward my usual table in the back corner, but my eyes drifted back to him one more time. He'd finally looked down at his laptop screen, and I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw was set like he was bracing himself for something difficult.
I recognized that look. I'd seen it in my own mirror often enough.
"Ah, Calliope! Good morning dear." One of the older staff greeted me while handing me my coffee.
"Good morning Silvia. How are you?" I took my coffee from her hands.
"Oh, you know. Someone has to pay the bills." She smiles at me and goes back to the counter to take another order.
I sip on my coffee and feel someone is watching me.
I turned to scan the room, trying to locate the source of that feeling, and found myself looking directly into a pair of green eyes. The guy at the window table was watching me, and when our gazes met, he didn't look away like most people would. He just held eye contact for a beat too long, like he was trying to figure something out.
Heat crept up my neck. I wasn't used to being noticed, and I definitely wasn't used to staring contests with strangers. I should have looked away first—that was the smart move, the safe move. Instead, I found myself taking a step in his direction.
He closed his laptop and stood up as I approached, which caught me off guard. Most people stay glued to their seats these days, too absorbed in their own worlds to acknowledge anyone else's existence.
"I'm sorry," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't mean to stare. You just—you look familiar. Do we know each other?"
His voice had a slight rasp to it, like he'd been up too late or hadn't used it much that morning. There was something genuine in his tone that made my usual deflection tactics feel unnecessary.
"I don't think so," I said, though something about him did feel familiar in a way I couldn't place. "I'm Calliope."
"Travis." He extended his hand, and when I shook it, his palm was warm and slightly calloused. Working hands. "Are you from around here?"
"Born and raised." The words came out automatically, though I rarely volunteered personal information to strangers. "What about you?"
"Just visiting. Job interview this afternoon." He glanced back at his laptop, then at me again. "Actually, I was supposed to be preparing for it, but I keep getting distracted by..." He gestured vaguely toward the window.
"By what?"
"The city, I guess. It's different, where I'm from." Travis picked up his coffee mug, realized it was empty, and set it back down. "Everything moves faster here. Even the coffee shops are busier."
I looked around at the morning rush crowd—people checking phones, tapping laptops, having intense conversations about quarterly reports and client meetings. To me, this was normal. Background noise. But seeing it through his eyes, it did seem a little frantic.
"Where are you from?"
"Cedar Falls. It's a small town about four hours south of here." The way he said it carried weight, like those two words contained a much longer story. "The population is thirty-eight hundred and shrinking."
Something in his voice made me want to ask more questions, which was unusual. I typically kept conversations with strangers short and surface-level. But there was something about Travis that made me curious despite myself.
"What kind of job interview?" I heard myself ask.
"My buddy works for this major construction company and he got me an interview." He looked down at his worn clothes.
"What's the company? I might know them." I said with a slight smile. What's wrong with me?
"Gilmore Construction"
"Wait! I have a meeting with the CEO of Gilmore Construction at 2pm today about this building project I need done" I saw a spark in his eye when I said that. "If you don't mind me asking, what is your friend's name?"
"Jackson Moore." He said.
"I know him, well not personally. He is the supervisor for the project blue prints. I've seen his work."
Travis's phone buzzed against the table, the vibration loud enough that we both glanced at it. He picked it up, and I watched his expression shift from relaxed to concerned as he read the screen.
"Everything okay?" I asked, though I wasn't sure why I cared.
He was already typing back, his thumbs moving quickly across the screen. "It's Mrs. Patterson—she's this elderly lady I help out back home. Her furnace is making weird noises and she's worried it's going to break down."
Another buzz. Then another.
"Sorry," he said, glancing up at me apologetically before looking back at his phone. "I'm trying to walk her through some basic troubleshooting, but..." He trailed off, typing again.
I watched him juggle what looked like three different text conversations, his brow furrowed in concentration. This wasn't someone checking social media or responding to work emails. This was someone who was genuinely needed, even from four hours away.
His phone rang, and he looked at the caller ID with a mix of affection and exasperation. "I should take this. It's Tommy—one of my tutoring students. He's probably panicking about his algebra test today."
He answered with a warmth I hadn't heard in his voice before. "Hey, buddy. Yeah, I know it's early, but remember what we practiced? Start with the easiest problems first, build your confidence..."
I found myself listening to one side of a conversation about quadratic equations and test-taking strategies, delivered with the patience of someone who'd had this exact discussion multiple times before. Travis wasn't just helping this kid with math—he was coaching him through his anxiety, reminding him of techniques they'd worked on, building him up.
When he finally hung up, his phone immediately buzzed with another text.
"I'm sorry," he said again, looking genuinely embarrassed. "This is why I was having trouble focusing on interview prep. Everyone back home still needs..."
He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. I could see it in his face—the weight of being the person everyone called when things went wrong.
"Cedar Falls, you said?" I asked him, pulling my own phone out.
"Uh, yeah. Why do you ask?" He looks away from his phone and is now looking at me. I can still hear his phone buzzing with text notifications.
"Type all the addresses of everyone you help in my phone please." I said without thinking. What am I doing? I don't owe this guy anything. For some reason I'm helping him.
Travis stared at me like I'd just offered to buy him a car. "I'm sorry, what?"
"The addresses," I repeated, holding out my phone. "Of the people you help. Mrs. Patterson, Tommy, whoever else keeps texting you."
His phone buzzed again, as if on cue. He glanced at it, then back at me, confusion written all over his face. "I don't understand. Why would you—"
"Because you're never going to focus on your interview if you're worried about everyone back home." The words came out more matter-of-fact than I intended. "And if you don't get this job, you'll go back to Cedar Falls and keep being everyone's emergency contact until you burn out completely."
Another buzz. Travis's jaw tightened.
"Look, I don't know you," I continued, "but I know what it looks like when someone's drowning in the problems of other people. You can't save everyone from four hours away, and you definitely can't do it from a coffee shop in Portland."
He was quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he was trying to figure out if I was serious or just messing with him. "You don't even know me. Why would you help?"
The question caught me off guard. Why was I helping? This wasn't like me. I didn't get involved in strangers' problems. I had my own work, my own responsibilities. But something about watching him try to solve everyone else's crises from a coffee shop table reminded me of something I couldn't quite name.
"Maybe I know what it's like to feel responsible for everyone," I said, the admission slipping out before I could stop it.
His phone buzzed again. This time he didn't even look at it.
"I can't just give you their addresses," he said finally. "These are real people with real problems. Mrs. Patterson doesn't even know how to use email. And Tommy—he's got a scholarship riding on his grades. I can't just hand that off to some stranger."
"I'm not some stranger. I run a foundation that helps people." I pulled out one of my business cards and handed it to him. "I have resources. I have people who know how to connect folks with the services they need. Your Mrs. Patterson probably qualifies for heating assistance. Tommy probably has tutoring options through his school district that nobody told him about."
Travis took the card and read it, his eyebrows raising slightly. "Foster care advocacy?"
"Among other things." I didn't elaborate. "The point is, I know how systems work. I know how to get people help that doesn't depend on one person being available twenty-four seven."
He was wavering. I could see it in the way he kept glancing between his buzzing phone and my business card.
"This feels wrong," he said quietly. "Like I'm abandoning them."
"No," I said, surprising myself with how certain I sounded. "This is what taking care of them actually looks like. Making sure they have support that doesn't disappear if you get hit by a bus or move to Portland."
"Okay." He grabbed my phone and put the addresses in. "What can you do? How can you help?"
"Let me make some phone calls real quick." I said, already dialing.
I stepped away from the table and made three quick calls while Travis watched nervously from his seat. The first was to Maria Santos, who ran our community outreach program.
"Maria, I need you to connect an elderly woman in Cedar Falls with heating assistance. Mrs. Patterson, eighty-three years old, furnace issues, probably hasn't applied for any aid programs." I rattled off the address Travis had given me. "Can you have someone from the county office call her today?"
"Already on it," Maria said. "I'll get her connected with both heating assistance and our senior support network. We've got volunteers who can do regular check-ins."
The second call was to Dylan Smith at the education department. "I need tutoring resources for a high school student in Cedar Falls. Math specifically, scholarship potential." I gave him Tommy's information. "The kid's been getting help from someone who's moving away."
"Cedar Falls High has a peer tutoring program through the state university," Dylan said immediately. "Plus there's a scholarship prep program that meets twice a week. I'll have the guidance counselor reach out to him today."
The third call was the hardest—to Father Martinez at St. Mary's in Cedar Falls. I'd found his number online while Travis was talking.
"Father Martinez? This is Calliope Reed from the Portland Family Foundation. I understand you're already helping coordinate some volunteer work for a young man named Travis?"
"Ah yes, his friend Jackson called me. Good boy, that Travis. Always helping others."
"I'm calling because Travis is interviewing for a job here in Portland today, and I want to make sure the people he's been helping have ongoing support." I explained about Mrs. Patterson and Tommy, about the community center work. "Can your volunteer network take over some of these responsibilities permanently?"
"Of course, of course. We've been trying to get Travis to let us help for months. He's too proud, that one. Always thinks he has to do everything himself."
When I returned to the table, Travis was staring at his now-silent phone like it had betrayed him.
"Mrs. Patterson is getting a call from the county heating assistance office within the hour," I said, sitting back down. "They'll not only fix her furnace but set her up with a monthly check-in program and emergency repair coverage."
Travis's mouth fell open slightly.
"Tommy's guidance counselor is calling him this afternoon about the university tutoring program and scholarship prep classes. Free, twice a week, with kids who actually know what they're talking about." I pulled out my own phone and showed him the notes I'd taken. "And Father Martinez says his volunteers have been wanting to take over the community center project for months, but you never let them."
"I..." Travis started, then stopped. "How did you do all that in ten minutes?"
"I know how to work the system. That's what I do." I leaned back in my chair. "Your people aren't going to be abandoned, Travis. They're going to be better taken care of than they were before, because now they have access to actual resources instead of just one overworked guy with good intentions."
His phone buzzed once—a text from Mrs. Patterson saying someone from the county had already called and was coming out that afternoon. Travis showed me the message, shaking his head in disbelief.
"She sounds excited," he said, reading the text again. "She hasn't sounded excited about anything in months."
"That's what happens when people get real help instead of just band-aids." I finished my coffee and stood up. "Now you can go to your interview and actually focus on it instead of trying to fix everyone's problems from four hours away."
Travis stood too, slipping his phone into his pocket. For the first time since I'd met him, he wasn't checking it every thirty seconds.
"I don't know how to thank you," he said.
"Get the job," I told him. "That's thanks enough."
"Can I get your number?" He asked with a slight smile.
"Sure." I said before realizing that I already had his phone in my hand and putting my number in his contact. "You can call me Cali."
I saw his smile get bigger. "I'll let you know how it goes!" He said packing up his stuff and leaving.