Now I was watching my husband rebuild a stranger’s résumé.

Diane disappeared behind a dressing screen.

When she stepped out, she wore a navy jacket with black pants.

She stood in front of the mirror. Her face immediately fell.

“This makes me look huge.”

Marco said nothing.

“My hair looks awful.”

Still nothing.

“I look 60.”

Marco stood. Then he walked over and turned the mirror toward the wall.

Diane gasped. “Marco!”

“We’re not interviewing your reflection, Diane.” He pointed toward the chair. “Sit.”

She obeyed.

For the next twenty minutes, he ran her through interview questions.

“Tell me about yourself.”

She stumbled. “Again.”

“Why do you want this position?”

She apologized halfway through. “Again.”

“Describe a difficult situation you handled.”

This time, Diane talked about caring for her mother while managing three children and an entire household.

Her voice became steadier.

Marco asked another question. Then another.

Eventually, she stopped searching his face for reassurance.

Only then did Marco turn the mirror back toward her.

“Now tell me what the employer sees.”

Diane looked at herself. Same jacket. Same hair. Same woman.

But now she stood straighter.

After a moment, she whispered, “Someone who knows what she’s doing.”

Marco smiled. “Exactly!”

Diane laughed. Then cried. Then laughed again because she was crying.

Another review came back to me. He made me feel beautiful again.

It had never meant Marco was telling women they were attractive.

He was teaching them to stop looking at themselves as though they were the problem.

Diane hugged him.

Marco stepped back almost immediately and handed her the folder.

“Go get the job.”

She wiped her eyes. “I’ll try.”

“No.” He opened the door. “Go scared.”

Diane blinked. “What?”

“You don’t have to stop being afraid before you walk into the building.”

She nodded. Then she left.

The door closed. Marco and I were alone.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

I looked around his office again.

“When,” I demanded, “were you planning to tell your wife the truth?”

Marco looked down. “Gigi…”

“What is this place?”

He leaned against his desk. “A return-to-work studio.”

“For women?”

“Mostly.”

“Why?”

He started answering, but I raised my hand.

“No. First tell me why every woman online talks about you like you’re some secret.”

The color drained from his face again. “Gigi.”

“One said her husband doesn’t know she comes here, Marco.”

“Her husband thinks she’s too old to work.”

I went still.

“Another is rebuilding after a divorce. Another hasn’t told her family she’s applying anywhere because she’s terrified she’ll fail.”

I stared at him.

“Their stories weren’t yours to tell me.”

Marco nodded. “No.”

“But yours was.”

That landed. He looked away.

I stepped closer.

“I’ve spent three years believing my husband worked at a hospital.”

“I consult with one,” he said. “Their social-work department refers women here when they’re trying to return to work after years of caregiving.”

“That’s not what I believed, Marco.”

“I know.”

“Do I?”

He looked at me.

“I had to book an appointment under my maiden name to find out what my own husband does all day.”

His face dropped. That finally hurt him.

And I was glad. Because this wasn’t simply a misunderstanding.

Then my attention caught on something beside his computer.

A small blue plastic token. Worn smooth with age.

I recognized it. It had once sat in a bowl at home with loose change.

“What is that?”

Marco followed my gaze, and for the first time since I walked in, genuine fear crossed his face as he reached for the small blue object that contained his deepest secret…