A Dying Mother Sent Her Daughter To Live With 3 Families… The Camera In Her Necklace Saw Everything

Simmyi, you were at home all day and you didn’t think this little girl needed to eat.

She didn’t tell me she was hungry. What was I supposed to do? Force her?

She’s 8 years old, Simmyi. Last time you forgot to pack lunch in her bag.

You never showed up to pick her from school. Her homework is never done. Her hair is never done.

You have sent her off in unwashed uniform. We asked to take this child. We said we would be her parents.

Dio, please. If you’re so pressed about all these things, then you can do them for her yourself.

I am not her biological mother.   And that was right. Simei wasn’t Binta’s biological mother, but 40 minutes away in a hospital room with running tubes, beeping machines, and the feeling of something much colder that could not really be named, Morayo’s biological mother, Morayo, was lying in a bed, watching all of it happen through a screen smaller than her palm.

She could not get up. She could not drive. She could not walk into that room and pull her daughter from that chair and tell her that none of this was what she had planned.

She could only watch. And she was watching because of something she had done. Something Simei and Dor did not know about.

Something that was the only way left to keep a promise she had made. This is the story of Morayo and Binta and what a mother will do when she can no longer stay to protect her child.

The doctors gave Morayo 8 months. They said it carefully the way doctors are trained to deliver something that will break a person with clinical softness and pamphlets about support groups.

She thanked them, folded the papers into her bag, took a bus home, made jolof rice because Binta would be back from school at 3, and only then, only after the rice was on the fire and the kitchen smelled like something normal, did she sit at the table and allow herself to cry just once, just for a few minutes?

Then she wiped her face and she began to plan because she had an 8-year-old daughter that she couldn’t leave alone in the world with nothing to fall on.

That was the thing about Morayo. She had always been a planner. She planned the way women planned when no one else is going to do it for them.

When Binta’s father left, not dramatically, not with a fight, but with a slow withdrawal that ended one morning with an empty wardrobe and a note that said he was sorry.

Mariah did not fall apart. She moved to a smaller flat. She took a second job.

She enrolled Binta in a good nursery program and paid the fees in installments. She built a small, steady life, not a loud one, not a perfect one, but a life that worked and that was held together by her hands alone.

She had done everything a person could do. She had taken Binta to school and to church and to the market and let her pick out her own fabric for her dress and taught her to braid her doll’s hair and how to say her name with her chin up and her voice clear.

She had done everything. The only thing she could not do was stay alive. Her social worker’s name was Mrs.

Zade Sola, a round woman with reading glasses always pushed to the top of her head and a voice that made everything sound slightly more manageable than it was.

We’ve identified three couples. All of them have gone through our full screening, good records, no flags, all actively seeking to adopt.

Mariah looked at the photographs. Three couples, three living rooms, three front doors Binta would have to learn to call home.

And I just pick one. That is how the process works. Yes. Mariah looked at the photographs for a long time.

A man and woman in church clothes, stiff and posed. Another couple, younger, smiling a little too widely for a studio photo.

A third, quiet looking, sitting on a porch, not looking at the camera, but each other.

She closed the folder. I want to meet them first. Of course, we can arrange.

Actually, wait. A pause. I want Binta to meet them first. Mrs. Adisola paused. Mrs.

Morayo, the standard process. I know the standard process. Her voice was calm, but it landed firmly.

I also know my daughter, and I know that whatever happens to her after I am gone is going to be shaped by where she lands.

I need to see it before I agree to it. Mr. Dola looked at her for a moment.

Okay. What exactly did you have in mind? What Mariah had in mind was unusual.

She would be the first to admit. She asked for Binta to spend two weeks with each couple, not as a former visit, not with Mariah watching from a chair in their sitting room, but actually staying living their life, eating their food, waking up in their house.

The social worker had concerns, process concerns, liability concerns, concerns that came with acronyms and sub clauses behind them.

But Mariah was calm and organized and running out of time. And eventually the concerns were addressed.

There was one more thing. The pendant Benta wore, the silver one pressed into her daughter’s hand in the hospital, it was not only a necklace.

Morayo had commissioned a small modification, discrete, almost invisible. A micro camera no larger than a pin head fitted into the face of the pendant, transmitting to Mariah’s phone.

It recorded for 10 hours before needing a charge and the pendant recharged by body heat.

She was a dying woman making sure she could see what she would no longer be present for in a matter of months.

She told Binta the truth as much of it as an 8-year-old could carry. You remember we talked about mama going to be with God?

Yes. Small voice. Well, before I go, I need to find you a very good home with a family that loves you.

So, I’m going to send you to visit three families. You’ll sleep there, eat there, go to school from there, and when you’ve seen all of them, you’re going to tell me which one you want.

Binta looked at her for a moment, and you will watch the pendant. She touched it gently against the child’s chest.

I’ll be watching. Binta touched it, looked at her mother. And if I don’t like any of them, Morayo held her daughter’s face in both hands.

Then we will not choose any of them. But I need you to go and see, my love.

I need you to look carefully. You are smart. You notice things, and I trust your eyes more than almost anything else in this world.

Binta said nothing for a moment. Then quietly, she nodded. She was 8 years old.

She was already the bravest person Mariah had ever known. The first couple, Kunle and Titi, lived in a house that looked right from the outside, well-kept, curtains that matched, a small garden with a bugilia climbing the fence.

The kind of house that photographs beautifully. But sadly, the inside was a different kind of place.

Titti had been a warm woman once. People who knew her before said so consistently with the quiet sorrow of people describing someone who no longer exists.

She had tried for a child for seven years. The child finally came a boy and left at 4 months old.

A fever that came in the night and did not break. 2 years of trying again after that nothing.

And somewhere inside all of that losing, something in Titi had calcified, turned to stone in the places where softness should have lived.

When Binta arrived, Titti looked at her the way some people look at a wound that reminds them of something they are not ready to name.

By the second day, the instructions had started. Binta, mop that floor again. You left water by the door.

If you are going to stay here for us to care for you, you should be able to do simple house chores.

She called mopping the floor twice. Simple to an 80-year-old. Binta, this cup is not clean.

Did I not show you how to wash properly? You are eight, not two. Act it.

She was almost never loud. That was the thing. Titty used the same tone one uses to read out a list of errands.

Flat setting. Like the child being spoken to was a task to manage, not a person to love.

The chores multiplied. Sweeping, fetching things from the top shelves, refolding laundry because Binta had not done it the right way.

Always the right way, always Titi’s way, always something Binta had failed to figure out before being told.

Koulle was barely there. He worked long hours and when he came home, there was something hollowed out about him.

He sat in the chair nearest the door, poured himself a drink, and watched a television he was not really watching.

He spoke to Binta gently on the rare evenings he was present. Ruffled her hair, asked how school was, but he was the kind of man who had lost the energy to notice what was happening in his own house, and so he did not notice.

One evening, Binta came home from school to find the kitchen door locked. She knocked Titty’s voice from inside.

What is it? I’m back from school, ma, and I’m hungry. A pause. There’s bread on the counter.

The bread was 2 days old. Binta ate it standing at the counter. She touched the pendant.

She did not cry, but she stood very still for a moment. The way children stand when they are being careful about something fragile inside themselves.

We cannot control the things that happen to us. That is simply not in our hands.

But we decide every day in small moments and large ones. We decide what those things will make us.

Titti had lost a child. That grief was real. That pain was real. But grief that has nowhere to go does not disappear.

It looks for somewhere to land. And in that house, it had landed on Binta.

Mariah watched all of it from her phone screen, her hands pressed together in her lap, her face entirely still.

By day 11, she had made her decision about Kun and Titi. The answer was a hard capital no.

Drop a word in the comments right now. Just one word for what you are feeling as you are watching this story right this moment.

And if this story is speaking to you, hit the like button to support Far the storyteller.

Let’s continue. The second couple were Dio and Simei. Dier was the kind of man who decorated for things.

He had put a small handdrawn welcome sign on the door of Binta’s room. Yellow letters on white paper, slightly uneven, clearly made that same morning.

He had asked Mrs. Zola what Binta’s favorite color was. It was blue. The bed sheets were blue.

He met her at the door with both hands out and a smile so genuine it was almost alarming.

Binta, we are so happy you are here. I’ve been telling Simei all week. Come in.

Come in. Sine was in the sitting room on her phone. She looked up when they entered, smiled briefly, said welcome, and looked back down.

That was the whole of her greeting. Dio did not seem to notice. Or perhaps he had learned not to.

He carried Bintas back to the blue room, showed her the bathroom, showed her the kitchen and where the snacks were kept, sat with her over a cup of Milo, and talked and talked.

The way people talk when they are trying to fill a house with warmth by themselves.

He walked early mornings. Most days he was gone before Binta woke up. Those were Simey’s hours.

The first morning, Binta came to the kitchen at 7. Simei was at the dining table with her phone, a podcast playing through her earphones, laughing at something.

She did not look up. Binta stood at the kitchen door. She stood there for a while.

Then she went back to her room. At midday, Dio called from work. Did you eat?

Is me feeding you well? I had some biscuits. A pause on the line. Just biscuits?

Yes, sir. Dio came home at 6 with a cooler of food his mother had packed and a quiet kind of fury he was working very hard to keep below the surface.

Simei, she did not eat all day. She didn’t tell me she was hungry. She’s eight.

You don’t wait for an 8-year-old. Simei, I didn’t know. She was in the house all day.

You were in the house all day. Simei looked at him for a moment, then at her phone.

I’ll do better tomorrow. Tomorrow came and Binta was sent to school in a uniform that had not been washed.

Simei had forgotten it needed to be. The lunch box was empty. She had intended to pack something and then received a voice note from a friend and was still on that call when the school bus came.

That afternoon, the gate closed at 3:35. Simei had been assigned pickup. At 4:15, a teacher called Dio’s number because it was the emergency contact.

Binta was sitting on the bench outside the main office with her school bag on her lap, touching the pendant, waiting.

All of this, Maria watched from her hospital bed with tears in her eyes. Dio left a meeting to go and get her.

He sat with her in the car outside their building that evening. Engine still running.

Neither of them speaking. Are you okay? I’m okay, sir. Binta, I’m sorry. I should have.

It’s okay. She said it too quickly and Dio kept quiet. That was the thing about children who have learned early that the adults around them are fragile.

They become very careful with the word. Okay. Now I want to ask you something and I want you to be honest in the comments.

If you are Maria lying in that hospital watching your daughter through that pendant. Binta is being fed some days.

She’s being picked up from school some days. Dio loves her genuinely. Is half enough?

Isn’t half bread better than none? Would you leave your child in a home where only one parent is present?

Drop your answer below because this is a conversation worth having. Mrs. Zadesah made the call on day 13.

The missed pickup had been flagged. It was not a small thing on paper and on paper was where these decisions lived.

Dier [snorts] was notified. He did not argue. He sat with his hands on his knees in the social worker’s office and said quietly that he understood.

Simei did not even come to the office. Binta packed her bag, the one with the pendant tucked safely inside her collar, and moved on to the third house.

Edwina and James had been married for 8 years. They had been trying for a child for five.

Not trying the casual way people use when they mean they are not preventing, but truly trying, chatting, praying, two rounds of IVF, one successful enough to give them 14 weeks of joy before it ended quietly one Tuesday morning.

One failed cycle that left Edwina sitting on a bathroom floor for 2 hours before she got up and washed her face and called James and said simply, “Come home.”

They had survived things together, this couple. That was what you noticed first about them.

Not their house, not their income, not their clean records in Mrs. Zadisa’s folder, but the way they existed near each other, like people who had walked through something and come out the other side, still choosing to face the same direction.

When Mrs. Adisola walked Binta to their front door, James opened it before they even knocked.

He had been watching from the window. He crouched so that he was at Binta’s eye level.

You must be Binta.   Yes, sir.   I’m James. That one behind me pretending not to hover is Edwina.

I am not hovering.   She has been cleaning a clean house since morning. Very relaxed.

Come in. We saved you the big chair.   They had cooked together, which was already something.

Edwina on the stew, James on the rice, the two of them moving around the kitchen in the practiced way of people who have long since figured out who stands where.

The problem was the vegetable. Edwina had made a side of bitter leaf soup, the proper kind, thick and dark green, the kind grandmothers point to with pride.

Binta looked at it. She did not pick up her spoon. James watched her from across the table.

He said nothing for a moment, then casually. You don’t eat bitter leaf. Binta shook her head small, apologetic.

Okay, he stood. Edwina, do we have eggs? James, she can. She doesn’t have to eat what she doesn’t eat.

That is not a lesson for day one. He was already at the fridge. Binta, how do you feel about a fried egg on rice?

She looked up at him. Something in her expression shifted. I like eggs. Good. I like a person who knows what they want.

He made the egg. He slid the plate across the table to her. He sat back down and continued his own meal as if nothing unusual had happened, and Edwina watched him over the rim of her water glass with a quiet expression of a woman who had chosen correctly.

Binta ate everything on her plate. But at 2:00 in the morning, Binta awoke. It was not a dramatic waking, no screaming, no sound, just her eyes opening in the dark of an unfamiliar room and the sudden total weight of where she was and where she was not.

She held the pendant. Then she began to cry quietly, the way she had learned, without making a sound that would bother anyone.

But still the door opened like someone had been listening all along in the dark to Bonita sleeping.

Edwina stood in the doorway, not rushed, not panicked, just present, the way you are present when you have been lying awake listening just in case.

She came to the edge of the bed and sat down. She did not ask what was wrong.

She did not say it’s okay because Edwina was smart enough to know it was not.

She said, “Can I sit here for a while?” Binta nodded. They sat together in the dark.

After a while, Binta spoke. “I had a dream about my mama. Do you want to tell me about her?”

The longest pause. Then she makes jolof rice every Friday. Even when she’s tired, she says Friday needs to smell like pepper and onions.

Edwina smiled in the dark. She sounds like someone worth missing. I miss her everyday.

I know, love. She said it simply without asking Binta to feel differently about it.

You can miss her everyday for the rest of your life and that is completely allowed.

Missing her doesn’t mean you can’t also have a good life. Both things can be true at the same time.

Binta was quiet. Then Mama said, “You are one of the people who might take care of me.”

That’s right. She said, “I can choose.” She said that to us, too. “She loves you very much.”

Binta touched the pendant. “I know,” she said softly. Edwina sat with her until she fell asleep.

She did not try to be her mother. She sat beside her like a person who was becoming something, maybe a friend, slowly and with patience, the way real relationships are built.

Three evenings later, Binta was in the sitting room with a book she was not fully reading, half watching the kitchen doorway where Edwina and James were finishing the washing up.

She heard it before she saw it, a song she didn’t know coming from Edwina’s phone on the counter.

Something slow, something with guitar. She looked up. James had taken the dish towel off his shoulder and was holding out his hand to Edwina with the exaggerated seriousness of a man proposing a waltz in a kitchen.

Edwina shook her head. James, the dishes. The dishes will wait. The song won’t. You are so embarrassing.

Dance with me. She took his hand. She always did. They moved slowly in the small space between the counter and the table.

Not gracefully, not in any way you would call dancing if you were being strict about it, but together, forehead to forehead, Edwina laughing at something he whispered in her ear.

James’s hand steady at her back. Binta watched from the doorway. Something happened in her chest.

Not sadness, not exactly. Something closer to recognition. This This is what a home that wants you looks like.

She laughed. A real laugh, small, surprised at itself. James looked over at her. You think we’re funny?

A little bit, sir. Fair. He spawned Edwina once badly, and she ducked under his arm, laughing.

Come on, then, join us. Binta shook her head, smiling into her book. But she stayed where she was.

She stayed until the song ended and all three of them were in the same room and the house smelled of the end of dinner and the windows were dark with night and for the first time in a long time Binta touched the pendants not from sadness she touched it to share something good.

Morayo sent the message through Mrs. Adola on a Thursday. Binta had only spent a week with Edwina and James.

She was asking all three couples to come to the hospital on Saturday morning. She had something to say to each of them.

She had a decision to make. They came. The three couples sat in the private room Mrs.

Adisola had arranged. Chairs in a loose arrangement. Morio in the chair nearest the window, thinner than she had been 6 weeks ago, but sitting straight.

Hands in her lap, eyes clear. Binta sat beside her mother close enough that their arms touched.

Kunlay and Titi went first. Titti spoke. She had rehearsed this. You could tell her voice was steady.

She said that having Binta in her home had reminded her of what love could feel like.

That they had been in a dark place for a long time and that this child, this particular child, might be exactly what they needed to find their way back to each other.

That she was willing to try, that Binta deserved someone willing to try. She reached across and took Kunlay’s hand when she finished.

He let her. Mariah looked at them both. She nodded once. “Thank you. Nothing more.

Not yet.” Dio spoke for the second couple. He said he would not pretend the two weeks had been perfect.

He said he knew something needed to change and he was ready to face that.

He said he had spent his whole adult life wanting to be a father and that he looked at Binta and saw someone he would walk through fire for and that he understood if today was not his day.

But he wanted Mariah to know his willingness to love this child was not in question.

[snorts] Simei sat next to him. She nodded at everything he said. Her face was soft in the way of someone who loves the person speaking and is trying honestly trying to want what they want.

We agree, she said when he was done. She meant it. That was the quiet tragedy of it.

She was not lying. She was agreeing the way people agree when they love someone and cannot figure out how to stop.

Mariah turned to Edwina and James. She opened her mouth and Binta said quietly but clearly, “I want to go home with them.”

The room stilled. Edwina put her hand over her mouth. James looked at the ceiling for a moment.

Binta was looking only at Morio. “I watched too, mama,” she said. “Like you did.”

Morayo smiled. And then into that silence, she did the thing none of them had expected.

She reached up and unclasped a matching pendant from around her own neck, a demonstration piece, its face slightly different, and she set it on the table between them.

6 weeks ago, I made a modification to the pendant I gave Binta. Her voice was on hurried level.

[snorts] There is a camera in it. It has been recording and transmitting to my phone every day since she walked out of this room.

The quiet in the room changed texture entirely. Titti went very still. Klay looked at the floor.

I watched everything. Moria said she did not say it crually. She said it the way you say something that needs to be said with sadness and clarity in equal parts.

And I want you all to know that what I decide today is not a judgment on who you are as people.

It is only about where my daughter belongs. She looked at Titty, held her gaze for a long quiet moment.

I hope you find peace. Real peace. Not the kind that comes from having something to control.

The kind that comes from laying down what you are still carrying. You lost something that cannot be replaced and you have been punishing yourself and everyone near you ever since.

I pray you put it down. I genuinely do. Tit’s jaw tightened. She nodded. Dio.

She looked at him with something warmer. You are a good man. I mean that from the bottom of what is left of my dying heart.

The love you have for a child you barely know is a rare and beautiful thing.

I hope you find your way to the life you are ready for. I truly hope that.

Dio and Simei fed their lips together and nodded. Edwina James. They looked at her.

Take care of my daughter. It was not a request. It was the transfer of the most important thing she had ever held.

We will,” Edwina said. Her voice broke only once on the last word. We will.

The camera was removed from the pendant that same afternoon. It had done its work.

The silver face was restored. The chain clasped back around Binta’s neck by Mariah’s own hands.

Just a necklace again, just a mother’s hands on her daughter’s neck. Mrs. Adessa finalized the paperwork over the following days.

A lawyer Morio had hired months ago on the very same day she received the diagnosis because that was the kind of woman she was had already drafted the trust documents a modest sum carefully assembled from savings and a small life insurance policy set aside in Binta’s name for school fees for a future for the day Binta was old enough to look at a number and understand what her mother had quietly done for her from the other side of time.

A social worker would visit every few months for the next 2 years to see the house, to see how Binta was sleeping, eating, laughing, to file a report that would say each time that the child was thriving.

Mariah was sure of that. 3 weeks later, on a Tuesday afternoon, Edwina and James brought Binta to the hospice.

Mariah was in a bed by the window. The light was good. You could see a small patch of garden from where she lay, a gardinia just beginning to open.

Binta climbed carefully onto the bed and lay beside her mother. Edwina and James stood near the door, close enough to be present, far enough to give Morioho and Binta the whole world.

They did not speak much, Morayo and Binta. They did not need to. Binta held the pendant in one fist and her mother’s hand in the other.

And Mariah looked at the garden and her daughter’s face and at the two people standing quietly by the door.

And she felt for the first time in 8 months that she was not leaving her daughter alone.

She was leaving her daughter loved. She died that afternoon with a small smile on her face and her daughter’s hand in hers.

The room was quiet. The light was good. The garden outside had opened completely by the time the nurse came to the door.

Dio and Simei, the second couple Binta had stayed with, drove home from the hospital without speaking.

The silence lasted 3 days. Then Simi broke it the way silences only break when both people know that the time for pretending has passed.

I don’t want to adopt, Dio. She said it, sitting across the kitchen table with both hands around a cup of tea she had not touched.

I don’t want to be a mother right now. Maybe not ever. And I don’t know how to keep letting you want it without being honest with you about that.

It was the most honest she had ever been with him in 3 years of marriage.

He sat with it for a long time. They were separated by the following year, not bitterly, not with noise, with the quiet sadness of two people who had loved each other genuinely and could no longer build in the same direction.

Dio moved into a flat in Leki. He adopted a dog. He coached a youth football team on weekends.

He had not stopped wanting to be a father. He had only learned that wanting is not always the season you are in.

Simei was lighter afterward, easier inside herself. She visited her sister more, laughed louder. She had a good life, not the one either of them had planned, but one that was honest.

And honest is not nothing. Binta grew, not quickly the way children grow in stories, fully formed in a paragraph, but slowly, the real way.

She had bad days. Days when she missed her mother so sharply it felt like something physical.

A pressure behind the sternum that could not be explained, only held. She held the pendant on those days.

She cried. She sat inside it for as long as she needed to, and Edwina learned not to fix it, only to sit nearby.

And James learned to make tea and leave it on the table without asking what was wrong.

And somehow that the tea, the quiet, the not asking became its own language between them.

She did well in school. She was good at writing which surprised no one who had known Morayo.

She had a best friend named Isoma who was loud in exactly the right ways and who made Binta laugh until she was holding her stomach.

She was the child who noticed when a classmate was sitting alone at lunch and went to sit with them every time without being asked.

That was the thing about Binta. The loss she had carried had not hardened her.

It had made her careful with other people’s pain. The way you are careful with something you know the exact weight of.

She called Edwina mom for the first time on a Wednesday morning 6 months in almost by accident.

She had started a sentence and by the time she heard what she had said, it was already in the air between them.

She looked at Edwina. Edwina looked back at her. Is that okay? Binta asked. That Edwina said, her voice not entirely steady, is more than okay.

She called James dad by the end of that same week. He was washing the car when she said it.

He stopped. He looked at her over the roof of the car. He said, “Yeah, very casual, very studied, and went back to washing.”

And she could tell from the way he scrubbed the same spot for the next 2 minutes that he was being very careful with his face, a habit of his that she had discovered.

Six years later, James sat in a small room, Edwina on the bed. The scan was the kind they had done before, twice, and both times it had ended in a different, heavier quiet.

But this time, the quiet was different. The nurse smiled. We have a very strong heartbeat.

Everything looks good. Congratulations, Mom and Dad. Edwina gripped James hand under the table so hard her knuckles went white and he gripped back and neither of them said a word for a long moment.

At home they told Binta together she sat on the couch between them 14 years old now all elbows and quiet confidence with her mother’s shape in the corners of her eyes and she listened.

Then she said very seriously, “Is it a boy or a girl?” “Too early,” James said.

“We’ll know in a few weeks.” I think it’s a boy. Okay, fine. If it’s a boy, Binta said, “I get to name him.

I earned it.” Edwina laughed so hard she had to cover her face. “We’ll negotiate,” James said.

It was a boy. His name was Kosi, a name Binta had found in a book of names she had quietly purchased 2 weeks after the announcement.

The page already do aired. From the day he came home, Binta was there. She changed nappies badly and improved quickly.

She sang to him the way Moria had sung to her, not perfectly, but with complete conviction.

She carried him when Edwina needed rest. She sat beside his court when he wouldn’t sleep and told him long stories with animals and rivers and children and lessons, the kind that wound around on themselves and landed somewhere unexpected.

She was the best big sister in the world. And sometimes when Cosy was sleeping and the house was quiet, Binta would hold the pendant against her chest and sit inside that stillness and feel as strongly as she had ever felt anything that her mother knew.

That somewhere somehow Moria could see this, that Binta was okay, that she was loved, that it had worked.

The end. There is a kind of love that plans ahead that ties up every thread it can reach so that the one who comes after will not fall.

We do not always get to say goodbye the way we want to. But some people, the brave ones, the planners, the ones who show up and show their love even when they are exhausted and afraid.

Some of them find a way to make sure the love outlasts them. Drop one word in the comments for what Mariah did.

Not a sentence, just a word that comes to mind when you think about a mother who watches through a necklace to make sure her daughter lands somewhere safe.

So, you think she was strong, wise, loving, smart? I want to know what you think because I think we will all choose differently and every single answer will be right.

And if you have been here from the beginning and you have not yet subscribed, today is the day.

Click that button and join a family of people who believe that the best stories are the ones that stay with you long after the end.

There is another story on your screen right now. I chose it for you carefully.

It is the kind of story you watch and then sit with for a little while after.

Go ahead, press play and I’ll see you there.