Question 1

PART 1 | Unpacked

Accepted Answer

Small feet were kicking a pile of empty cardboard boxes in the middle of the living room with unexpected force.

"My pink bunny is gone!" Iona's voice echoed through the walls of the house.

​Martin had crouched down to her eye level. Both hands hung in the air, open, as if he'd surrendered. He spoke in the softest voice a man's throat could produce:

"Your pink bunny is around here somewhere, princesa. We'll find it. I promise."

​Martin never allowed himself a margin of error in his decisions. But faced with Iona's fury, even as he tried determinedly to calm her down, he still doubted his decision to come to Istanbul.

These outbursts of Iona's had started with Martin and his ex-wife Clémentine's divorce in Paris, and had grown worse with each passing day. Martin had been able to continue his work thanks to Claire, the nanny who had been taking care of Iona since she was a baby. If you could call it "continuing."

​Her mother's absence had made Iona, who had cried excessively since infancy, even more irritable, turning her into a difficult child to handle. Of course, Iona wasn't the only one affected by this situation; Martin was bewildered too. Days and nights of internal reckoning; trying to soothe Iona's sobs between sleep cycles while emotions knotted in his own throat... These had begun affecting his performance at work.

​The ground had become slippery at his position in Paris. He'd started making too many mistakes in his career. So when the offer came for an open position at the international fuel distribution company in Istanbul, he'd made his decision quickly. A completely different city. A fresh start.

He'd trusted this new beginning. But as the boxes were unpacked, all the feelings from Paris came spilling out. Martin tried to rearrange these feelings one by one as he unpacked them, believing he could organize them better this time.

The path ahead still wasn't very clear. But he had no choice except to try. First for Iona, then for himself. Yet the pain and emptiness of abandonment was so vast that even this 180-square-meter apartment they'd moved into didn't seem spacious enough to contain it.

​He'd chosen the apartment from options the company had offered him. When he'd looked online, he'd seen other apartments that appealed to him more. But the company offered rental support for their suggested apartments. He'd made a very good deal. His income was quite high, yet he still felt obligated to make every calculation for Iona's future.

​The apartment came with appliances and furniture. They'd only needed to bring a few boxes of personal belongings. The place didn't really suit his taste, but it would do.

​White walls, beige curtains, light-colored wood parquet floors... Everything carried that typical new construction smell. The living room was spacious and airy; a gray fabric L-shaped sofa set stood in the middle. Maybe good quality, but it carried no story. The coffee table in the center was a modern mix of glass and chrome, the corner display shelves empty.

​Some time after moving in, Martin had asked friends from Paris to ship his Charles Eames chair. The vintage piece in dark brown leather looked odd next to the gray fabric sofa, but at least it was his. He also had them send the Spanish console that had belonged to his mother—dark wood with hand-crafted details. He hung the few small paintings by Spanish artists he'd been able to fit in boxes on the walls. Still, the apartment looked like it belonged not to him, but to a corporate file.

​The room he'd taken the most care with was Iona's. Instead of pink, he'd chosen mint green and beige, hanging illustrations from Spanish fairy tales on the wall. The bookshelf was filled with French and Spanish children's books. Some were from his own childhood. The toys were organized, but the view from her window gave him no peace: the concrete of the building across, the cold asphalt below. The park was far away.

​Martin's bedroom was the most minimalist. Gray-headboarded king-size bed, dark wood nightstand, white lacquer wardrobe. The wardrobe was filled with Tom Ford and Zegna suits, but there wasn't much; he cared about quality, not quantity. Every evening he placed his father's gift, an IWC watch, in the same spot: the nightstand top, dead center.

When he stepped onto the balcony, he could see the Bosphorus—but from twelve floors up. The view was like a postcard, but distant, untouchable. He drank his morning coffee here, sometimes sipped his evening whiskey here, but never felt at home. Traffic noise drifted up from below, but there was no street life. Neighbors hanging laundry, balconies with breakfast tables, children's voices... None of it existed. Just silence and glass.

He'd turned the empty corner of the living room into a violin stand. By the window, city lights were visible. When he played violin, he watched outside: the distant Bosphorus, the distant life. The music echoed beautifully through the rooms.

​The apartment was functional. It was safe. It was prestigious.

The few boxes still waiting to be unpacked in the middle of the living room gave off a sense of "I could leave again at any moment."

This still wasn't a real home.
 
Claire appeared at the living room doorway holding a pink toy bunny.

"Iona, look! I found your pink bunny!"

​Iona first turned her head to look at the toy bunny in Claire's hand. Then she turned back to the boxes and kicked them a few more times. She ran over, grabbed the bunny from Claire's hand, and kept running to her room. She slammed the door shut.

​Martin took a deep breath. He stood up, walked closer to Claire. There was gratitude in his eyes.

"Thank you, Claire. If you hadn't agreed to come with us, I wouldn't have moved to this city right now."

​Claire smiled faintly.

"I don't miss the life I left behind in Paris. Since the day you entrusted me with Iona's care, my life has gained more meaning. Of course I'm with you, Martin."

​Martin smiled slightly. He touched Claire's shoulder with one hand. Then he glanced toward the hallway. He turned back to Claire:

"Are you comfortable in your room? Do you need anything?"

​Claire bowed her head forward as if in thanks.

"No, I don't need anything. My room is quite comfortable. Just..."

"Just what, Claire?" Martin asked.

Claire answered hesitantly:

"I know how intensely you need to work. But I also need a little more time for myself."

Martin lowered his hand from Claire's shoulder.

"I know how much you've devoted yourself to us and how exhausting it is for you, Claire. I'll do what I can, you can be sure."
 
Martin really was working intensely and struggling to adapt to the new work order in Turkey. He arrived ten minutes early for his first meeting at the company. But ten minutes after the meeting time, there was still no one in the room but him. Then others slowly began to arrive; no one was in a hurry.

​When the meeting started, there were eight people inside, all drinking tea. In the middle of the table: a tray of poğaça (savory pastry), napkins, sugar bowls... They shook hands with Martin one by one, looking into his eyes.

"Welcome, welcome Martin!"
"How was your flight?"
"Have you settled in?"
"Do you need anything?"

​The questions didn't stop; everyone was offering something.

"Tea? Coffee? We have both."
"Coffee, thank you."
 
Martin adjusted his shirt cuff.
"Turkish coffee or Nescafe?"
"Turkish coffee, I suppose."

A young man immediately jumped up, went into the hallway, and shouted:
"Elif! A guest coffee!"
Then he turned back, grinning:
"Two minutes."

​Martin sat down in his chair, opened his laptop. In his previous offices, meetings didn't start like this—silence, punctuality, an espresso machine in the corner... Here everyone was talking, laughing, and no one had opened their computer. It was 10:20. The coffee didn't come, the meeting hadn't started.

​"So Martin, is this your first time in Istanbul?" someone asked. The Operational Coordination Director. Was his name Kerem? Martin was still trying to memorize these unfamiliar names.

"Yes. First time."
"You'll love it here. Best city in the world."
Martin raised his eyebrows.
"We'll see."
The coffee arrived. Small cup, frothy, with Turkish delight on the side. Martin sipped it—bitter but strong. Kerem was watching him, waiting.

"Good?"
"Strong."

Martin set down the cup.
"Should we start?"
"Of course, of course!" Kerem said, clapping his hands.

But no one hurried. Computers opened, files shuffled, someone checked their phone, someone typed a message. Twenty-five minutes had passed. In Paris, Martin would have stood up and left. This time he waited. He didn't want to make too many waves in the first week.
 
At the end of the first week, there was dinner with the operations team. It wasn't mandatory, but the invitation had come:

"We want to welcome you properly."

Martin accepted. A meyhane (tavern) in Nişantaşı—fish, rakı (anise spirit), meze (shared appetizers).

When they sat at the table, first three plates came, then six, then ten. Martin raised his rakı glass.

"Cheers."
"No, no, we say 'şerefe.'"
"Şerefe," Martin repeated. His accent was awkward, but it gave him a certain charm.

Throughout the meal, everyone talked—about their families, their children, vacation plans. Martin listened, spoke little, occasionally made a joke.

Someone asked:
"Martin, do you have children?"
"I have a daughter. She's five years old."
"Ah! Did you bring her to Istanbul?"
"Yes. With me."
"And your wife?"

Martin slowly lowered his glass, his eyes darkening for a moment, then he corrected his expression.
"I'm divorced."
There was silence. Brief but heavy.

When he said he'd leave at eleven:

"I need to get up early tomorrow."
No one pressured him.
At the door, Kerem patted his shoulder.
"You're different from the others, Martin."
"Which others?"
"The ones who come from Paris. They don't eat with us, don't drink with us, give orders and leave. You... you sit with us."

Martin smiled slightly.

"I'm not Parisian, Kerem. I'm from Barcelona."
"Even better. Mediterranean blood. You get it."
 
When Martin opened the door, it was eight-thirty. There was silence in the hallway. That tense silence. Claire was waiting at the kitchen door, arms crossed, face tired.

"How was your day?" Martin asked.
Claire took a long breath.
"Difficult."

Martin rubbed his chin, took off his jacket.
"Iona?"
"In her room. She didn't eat anything again tonight."

​Martin walked to the hallway, reached Iona's door. He knocked gently.

"Iona, it's me."
No answer. He opened the door.

Iona was sitting on her bed, hugging her knees, staring at the wall. She didn't turn her head.

Martin entered, closed the door behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed but didn't touch her. He waited.
"I don't want to talk to you," Iona said in a resentful voice.
"Okay, let's not talk. I just want to sit with you," Martin said.
Silence.

​Iona's small hands gripped her knees tighter.
"Where were you?"
"I was at work. I'm sorry, princesa. The meeting ran late."
"It always runs late! You're always coming home late! You promised you'd come at seven!"

Martin's jaw tensed.
"You're right. I promised."
"And Claire isn't my mother. I don't want Claire, I want you. And I want my mother!"
She shouted the last sentence, then buried her face in her knees. Her shoulders trembled.

​Martin reached out, placed his hand on his daughter's back. Iona stiffened at first, then softened. Martin pulled her into his lap, stroked her hair. Iona cried, Martin waited. Something was breaking inside him, but his face remained calm.

"I know, mi amor. I know."
"Why isn't Mom here?"

Martin closed his eyes, took a deep breath.
"Because... because sometimes adults can't live together, Iona. But that doesn't mean we don't love you. We both love you very much."
"Then why can't I see her?"

Martin's jaw tensed. Unconsciously, instinctively. "Three languages, two degrees, and I still can't explain to a five-year-old why her mother left me", he thought.
​"I wish she could be here too, Iona. But I can't change that."

Iona looked at him, her eyes red.
"Then why are we here? I hate Istanbul. I have no friends. I don't understand what people are saying. Everything is weird."

Martin couldn't help gripping his chin, then released it.
"Give me time, sweetheart. You'll make friends. We'll sign you up for activities, you'll meet children."
"I don't want to meet children! I want my home! I want my mother!"

Martin stayed silent. He had no answer. He'd brought her here—away from Clémentine, away from their life in Paris. Because he had no other choice. The custody agreement was clear: in the best interest of the child, Iona would stay with him. But Iona didn't understand this; she couldn't understand it yet.

When Iona fell asleep, Martin went down to the kitchen. Claire was carefully loading dishes into the machine, trying not to make noise. Martin opened the cabinet, poured himself a glass of whiskey. He took a sip, looked out the window. Outside, the Bosphorus sparkled with lights.

​Claire dried her hands with a towel.
"Did she fall asleep?"
"Yes."
"Martin... I don't want to overstep, but Iona needs professional support. When you're not here, I do what I can, but as you can see, it's not enough. We need to get help from a specialist. Otherwise, life will get harder and harder for Iona and for us."

Martin slowly rotated the crystal glass in his hand.
"I know."

​Then he fell silent. He was thinking about what he could do. The first months were always hard. New office, new team, new systems. In six months it would ease up, he'd have more time. But six months was like forever to Iona.
 
He finished his whiskey, left the glass in the sink. His shoulders were low. He walked to the hallway, gently cracked open Iona's door. His daughter was asleep, pink plush bunny in her arms. Martin entered, straightened the blanket, kissed her forehead. "Not getting nominated for Father of the Year this time around", he thought.

Then he went to his own room, took off his suit, lay down on the bed. He stared at the ceiling. He couldn't sleep. He just thought: how to be a good manager, how to be a good father, and how to be both at the same time? He was a good manager, but right now everything he was trying to manage seemed to be falling apart.

Question 2

PART 2 | Perfect on Paper (+18)

Accepted Answer

Woman in Green Dress
It was Martin's third week in Istanbul. At the closing reception of the Bosphorus Energy Summit, he stood beneath crystal chandeliers, single malt whisky in hand, chatting with two French investors.

The phone in his pocket vibrated. He pulled it out, looked at the screen. Claire, his daughter's babysitter, was calling. With a slight nod of apology to the group he was with, he withdrew to a quieter corner of the hall.

"Claire?"
"Martin, I'm sorry to bother you. But Iona won't take a bath. She's throwing her toys at the wall, screaming..."
"Tell her what I said. If she doesn't take a bath, we're not going to the park tomorrow," Martin said.
"I tried. She won't listen. She keeps saying 'I want Papa.'"

Martin took a deep breath. He looked around. No one was watching. But he lowered his voice anyway. Iona was crying and yelling on the phone. Martin silently allowed Iona to vent on the phone for a while. Then he talked at length to negotiate with the park reward. Convincing investors was easier than convincing Iona.

When he hung up, something passed through him, something painful, but it didn't show on his face. He put the phone in his pocket, returned to the hall. The men were still there, this time chatting with a director from Germany. Martin smiled, joined the group, made jokes, laughed, tried to smile.

An hour later, the phone vibrated again. A message from Claire: "She's calmed down. She's sleeping now."

Martin's shoulders relaxed. He took a sip of his whisky. The noise around him, the laughter, the music, all of it was distant. For a moment he wanted silence. Just for a moment... nothing. He spotted the wide terrace opening from the gala hall. When the conversation dispersed, he moved toward the terrace, careful not to be seen by a few local journalists who were watching for an opportunity to approach him from a far.

Just then, he noticed the glittering footsteps following him. The woman was coming from the other end of the hall, balanced steps on long legs. A dark green dress, a deep neckline. Her hair fell over her shoulders, copper-toned. Maybe mid-thirties, maybe younger, but in her eyes there was experience, not age. When she caught Martin's gaze, she hesitated, then walked directly toward him.​​​

​​​​​​​​​No hesitation. Martin liked people without hesitation. People who didn't play games, who knew what they wanted and weren't afraid to say it.

"You look like you've had a long evening," the woman said when she reached him. Her voice was low, with a slight American accent. Her smile was provocative.
"Productive. But I can't say it's over yet. Can I?" Martin replied, raising his glass slightly.
"What else is on your agenda?" the green-dressed woman asked.

​Martin hesitated first. In that brief silence, he savored the taste of feeling a spark—one he kept postponing reminding himself of between home, work, and responsibilities. These sparks he rarely caught could at least briefly ignite and burn the noise in his mind.

He surveyed those around them, then the woman's features. He lowered his voice.
"Flexible."
"Good," the woman said. "I'm in room 1847. Fifth floor."

She took a step back, then stopped.
"Ten minutes?"
"Eight," Martin said. The woman laughed with a deep, throat-rising but short laugh.

​The guests were beginning to disperse slowly. Martin checked the messages on his phone again. No messages. He headed to the room the woman had indicated.

​When the room door opened, what greeted Martin was silence and dim light. Martin closed the door behind him, locked it. He left his jacket on the chair.
 
​He took off his wristwatch and placed it on the dresser.
​"You didn't tell me your name," Martin said, approaching her.
"Does it matter?" the woman asked, finally turning to him. There was challenge in her eyes.
"No," Martin said. "It doesn't matter."

​When the distance between them closed, the woman put down her glass. She looked at Martin's face, his sharp jaw, dark brown eyes, magnificent lips. Then she touched Martin's chest with her hand, over his shirt. Martin's hand reached for the woman's waist, then her back, then her neck. He ran his fingers through her hair and tilted her head back gently. The woman held her breath, looking into Martin's eyes with a pleased, thin smile on her eyes and lips.

"I won't be gentle," Martin said, his lips approaching the woman's ear.
"Good," the woman whispered. "Neither will I."

​​​​​​​​​The first kiss was sharp and demanding. As Martin's lips pressed against the woman's lips, his hands were already searching for the dress's zipper. The woman used her fingers hastily while unbuttoning Martin's shirt, buttons opening, fabric straining.

​As Martin pushed her decisively toward the bed, the woman didn't pull back. On the contrary, she pulled Martin's body even closer to her, her hands clinging to the muscles on his back. When the dress fell to the floor, Martin stopped. Just for a moment, but it was enough. The woman stood before him in her underwear, her skin glowing under the light. She was beautiful, natural and impressive, but what attracted Martin was something else. The way she looked at him. As if she was curious about what Martin would do, but not afraid—on the contrary, excited.

"Lie down," Martin said.

The woman lay on the bed, raised her arms above her head. Her gaze followed Martin. Martin took off his shirt, slowly unbuckled his belt. Every movement was slow, deliberate. He wasn't rushing. When he got on the bed, he leaned over the woman, separated her legs with his knees. His hands gripped the woman's wrists, pressed them to the pillow above her head. The woman didn't protest. On the contrary, her breathing quickened.

"If you want me to stop, say so," Martin said, his voice serious.
"I won't," the woman answered.

Martin started kissing from her neck. With the fingers of one hand, between the woman's legs, he applied gentle pressure to the most sensitive points. With each kiss he went a little lower, the kisses becoming a little wetter. The pressure of his fingers became more pronounced with each second.

As his lips and teeth touched the woman's skin, she moaned involuntarily. Martin pulled the woman's underwear, then removed it completely. Then he lowered his own pants. When he entered her, the woman took a sharp breath. He adjusted his rhythm, continued.

"Harder," the woman whispered.

Martin complied. He thrust harder with his hips. One hand still holding the woman's wrists, with his other hand he grabbed her from under her hip, bringing her even closer to his own body. He increased his speed. He controlled what he would do, how he would do it, how long he would do it, and that's what gave him real pleasure. The woman didn't seem to complain either. When the woman reached her first climax, her body tensed, she threw her head back, her breath caught. Martin didn't stop. The woman moaned almost pleadingly.

"Too much! Too much!"

Martin looked at the woman's face, examined it for a brief moment. The corner of his lip curled up because the woman's lips and eyes weren't saying the same thing. He continued harder. The harshness of the sound from their skin colliding contrasted with the softness of the down comforter beneath them. A few seconds later, the woman reached climax again, this time deeper, longer. Martin let himself go. His body tensed, he came with a barely audible moan.

​Martin let himself fall onto his back on the bed. He was looking at the ceiling. His breathing had slowed, his body had relaxed. There was an empty, soothing silence in the room. He reached one arm to the dresser, took his watch, wrapped it around his wrist. The woman turned, ran her finger along Martin's arm.
 
"Stay a little longer."

Martin knew the meaning of this sentence. Staying a little longer meant an emotional burden he would have to carry, even if just for a few minutes, and he had no tolerance for that.

Martin recognized the tightness inside him. Those feelings, faces, thoughts that stop at the moment of climax, then rush back. His ex-wife's departure, his daughter Iona's face, the nanny Claire's worried voice, the buzzing conversations at the office, the man who averted his eyes from himself in the mirror.

"It's late," Martin said. His voice was flat. "I have to go."
The woman withdrew her hand. She smiled but her smile was forced.
"Of course."

Martin got out of bed, gathered his clothes. As he put on his pants, he turned his back, began buttoning his shirt. The slowness he'd shown when undressing had turned into haste when dressing. Every movement was mechanical, habitual. The woman sat on the bed, had pulled the cover up to her chest, was just watching.

​As he left through the door, Martin turned slightly and looked at the woman one last time.

"Good night."

The woman didn't answer. She just raised one hand and moved her fingers gracefully, waving goodbye.

As Martin walked down the hotel's wide corridor, he stopped for a moment, leaned his forehead for a few seconds against the cold surface of a gold-gilded mirror he was passing. He closed his eyes.

"Thirty minutes," he thought. "A thirty-minute break. Then everything goes back to the same place."

He opened his eyes. He went down to the lobby in the elevator. He left the hotel, into the cold Istanbul night. He got in his car and drove home.
 
Perfect on Paper
Early that same evening, when Esra called for the third time, Yasemin pulled the phone away and stared at the screen. She'd either give in to her friend's persistence or turn off her phone. Giving in seemed easier.

"Come on, Yasemin, I'm telling you this guy is great, don't let him slip away," Esra pressed.

Yasemin's voice was mocking.

"I know your 'great guys.' I've seen them at the two dates you forced me into. One spent the entire evening talking about his ex with tears in his eyes. I gave the man a free therapy session through dinner. And the other one, what did you call him, that tech genius? Turned out to be a gaming addict. When he found out the only game I'd ever played was The Sims, his face fell. He wanted to leave. What's the gimmick with the next great guy? Is he coming in a Spider-Man costume?"

Esra laughed on the other end.
"Maybe. At least he'd clear out the cobwebs between your legs."

Yasemin didn't respond but smiled quietly. Esra kept pushing.

"Yasemin, Arda's an architect. You work nonstop. At least stick your head out from the house, the child development center, the chocolate workshop and have a nice evening. Please. Do it for me. Do it for yourself."

Yasemin sighed deeply.
"Fine. Not for you, not for myself. Just to stop your nagging."

"Great! Two hours from now, eight tonight. Meyhane 1924. It's a casual place, don't stress. Call me the second you get home and tell me how it went," Esra said.

​When she hung up, it was six in the evening. Yasemin took a deep breath and walked to the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror. There was exhaustion on her face, but it was the recoverable kind. She untied her hair, long brown waves falling over her shoulders. "Maybe this time will be different," she thought. She knew it wouldn't be, but she got ready anyway.

​At quarter to eight, she walked out the door wearing a midnight blue dress, light makeup.

The restaurant was crowded but warm. It had that meyhane (Turkish tavern) atmosphere - white tablecloths, wood-paneled walls.

When she entered, she spotted Arda immediately. Exactly as her friend had described.

When their eyes met, Arda stood. He was tall, athletic, his dark shirt fitting well across his shoulders. An attractive man, carefully dressed.

They shook hands. His hand was warm, his grip confident.

"Esra talked about you a lot," Arda said.
"Don't believe everything. She likes to exaggerate," Yasemin replied with a smile.

Arda gave Yasemin a quick once-over from head to toe.
"So far, she seems to have been telling the truth."

They settled at their table. Background music and the murmur of other customers' conversations accompanied theirs. The waiter came, took their order. They ordered a small bottle of rakı (anise spirit). When the glasses arrived, Arda raised his.

Yasemin touched her glass to his lightly, took a sip. The ice-cold rakı was refreshing.

"Esra said you work with children. Must be difficult work," Arda opened.
"Not really," Yasemin said, shrugging slightly. "Children are never difficult. Adults are difficult. With children, everything's simple. If they love you, they love you openly. If they're angry, they're angry openly. They don't play games."

Arda laughed.
"Is that a dig at adults?"

Yasemin narrowed her eyes, adopting a playful expression.
"Maybe. Do you play games?"
"Depends on the situation," Arda said, his voice slightly teasing.

​With curious eyes, he leaned his arms on the table and moved a bit closer to Yasemin.

"And this chocolate business, Madame Choco. I have to admit, the truffles especially are amazing. Actually impressive, but how do you manage both at once? Entrepreneur and psychologist. Interesting combination."

"I'm glad you liked the truffles," Yasemin smiled. She always enjoyed compliments about her chocolates. As she took a sip from her rakı glass, she used that brief moment to think, then continued.

"Actually, the two jobs are similar. Both mean patience, attention, learning the right timing. With chocolate, temperature matters, timing, texture. Same thing in therapy with children. Intuition is crucial. I think that's why I can sustain both jobs, that intuition. And there's motivation too. Madame Choco's income lets me provide free therapy to children with special needs at the development center."

​Then she turned her gaze more carefully to Arda's face.
"You're an architect, right? Esra mentioned it."

"Yes. I worked in London for two years. At Foster + Partners. Then I came back. Now I'm freelance, I have my own studio. Currently working on a project. A mixed-use building. Offices on top, shops below."

When he started talking about his work, Arda's eyes lit up. His voice became more animated, his hands began drawing shapes in the air as he spoke. Yasemin listened. Arda was a good storyteller, spoke with passion. He talked about glass facade design, natural light flow, sustainable materials, preserving local fabric. He had knowledge, he had vision. But something was missing.

The meze (appetizers) arrived: eggplant salad, dried mackerel, white cheese. The tips of their forks began touching inside the small plates. Sensing he'd gotten too detailed about his work, Arda redirected his attention to Yasemin.

"There's a contradiction in you. Two jobs at once, constant motion. One creative, one emotional. How do you balance it?"

Yasemin paused. It was a good question.
"Actually, I don't balance it," Yasemin said, laughing. She continued.
"I just let myself flow. I flow with the children, I flow with the chocolate. I don't look for balance. Things wobble around and settle into place on their own each time."
"So you live spontaneously?" Arda asked, with narrowed, smiling eyes.

Yasemin swirled the sip of rakı in her mouth before swallowing, looking away.
"Let's say I live without plans. Unplanned and emotional."

Arda's eyes traveled across Yasemin's face.
"Unplanned, emotional, and attractive... Strange for a woman like you to be alone."

Yasemin's gaze went defensive, as if Arda had said something bad about someone she loved.
"I like being alone. In fact, I need it. Don't you ever enjoy solitude?"

Arda laughed lightly.
"Do I enjoy it? I don't know. But I'm used to it. I've been alone for six years."

​The main courses arrived. Yasemin had ordered sea bass, Arda lamb tandoori. They ate, they talked. The conversation flowed, wasn't forced. Arda was smart, had a sense of humor, gave quick responses to Yasemin's remarks.

​​​​​​​​​​​"So, Paul?"
Arda had asked suddenly. The question hung in the air for a few seconds. Yasemin frowned.
"Esra told you, I'm guessing."
"Yes. Sorry, if it's private..."
"No, it's not private. It's over. It's been eight months."
"What happened?" Arda asked in a low voice, trying to suppress his curious tone.

Yasemin took a deep breath.
"We were both too busy. He focused on his restaurant, I focused on my work. We had passion but no time. Eventually we burned out."
"I'm sorry," Arda said.
"Don't be. It was the right decision. Sometimes people fit, but timing doesn't."

Arda looked away. He adjusted the position of a meze plate on the table slightly with his hand.
"You seem like someone who doesn't manage events but tries to control the emotions."

Yasemin's fork, about to reach her mouth, paused. Arda was reading her. Reading her quickly.
"Maybe," she said in an almost whispered voice.

She seemed hesitant to continue the conversation. Arda chose not to push.

When they stepped outside, the air had cooled. Street lamps were on, Istanbul's night chaos had begun. Yasemin tightened her jacket.
"It was a nice evening. Talking with you was enjoyable," Yasemin said.
"Thank you. Esra was right, you really are an interesting woman."
"Interesting? Is that a compliment?" Yasemin laughed.
"Yes. Absolutely."

There was a silence. Arda seemed like he might move closer. Yasemin took a step back. Very slight, an almost imperceptible movement.

Arda understood. He smiled, extended his hand.
"I hope we'll see each other again."
"I hope so."

In the taxi home, Yasemin watched outside through the window, thinking. Arda was a good person. He was handsome, smart, successful. Esra was right, on paper he was perfect for her. He'd reminded her that she was afraid of falling apart emotionally. But Yasemin felt it inside—she was afraid of falling apart, but at the same time she wanted to fall apart, she'd missed falling apart. There was no spark in Arda that could shatter her. He was flat. Transparent. Too transparent. Too easy. Yasemin had never chosen the easy and safe option.

​She entered her small apartment in Beşiktaş. She changed, removed her makeup, lay on the bed. Her phone vibrated. Esra was calling. She didn't answer. She chose to send a quick message instead: "He wasn't even wearing a costume, I was so bored. It didn't work."

​She closed her phone. She stared at the ceiling. In the darkness, in her solitude. After a busy day filled with children at the development center, chocolate orders, appointments, her mind had finally filled with some silence and peace, but still with the desire to be cluttered.

​Episode Soundtract

Question 3

PART 3 | Compass

Accepted Answer

Broken
When Martin walked into the kitchen that morning, Iona sat at the table, staring at her plate. Croissant, jam, butter. She hadn't touched any of it. Iona's nanny, Claire, was making coffee at the counter. When she saw Martin, she gave a slight nod.

Martin sat down next to Iona, pulled out the chair slowly.
"Buenos días, princesa."

Iona didn't turn her head. Her eyes stayed on the plate, her hands in her lap.

Martin took a deep breath. Last night when he'd gotten home, it had been two in the morning. He'd checked Iona's room—she was sleeping, the pink rabbit in her arms. Her face peaceful. He'd kissed her forehead, straightened the blanket, then gone to his own room. He'd stood under the hot shower for a long time. The hot water washed his body but not his thoughts. The woman's scent, the silence of the room, then the darkness of the car on the way home... It was all still there, somewhere, knotted in his throat.

But now he was next to Iona. Where he always wanted to be but never could be.

Iona kept staring at the plate, her hands holding the pink rabbit's ears.

Martin took a deep breath. Claire set the cup in front of him, silently. He thanked her, took a sip. It was bitter but strong.

"What would you like to do today?" Martin said, his voice soft.
Iona didn't answer.

"Maybe we could go to the park this afternoon. I'll leave work early. Just you and me. What do you say?"
Silence again.

Martin took the croissant, tore off a small piece and put it on Iona's plate.
"One bite. Just one bite, mi princesa."
 
Iona didn't even look at the croissant. Then she raised her head, looked at Martin. She wasn't crying but her voice was barely audible.

"You didn't read me a story last night."

Martin's hand stopped over the cup. He pressed his lips together, and with the breath he drew in through his nose, guilt, anger, helplessness all flooded his lungs at once. But he didn't let it show on his face. He tried to keep his voice controlled, but the tension seeped through.
​​​
"Iona, I had to come home very late last night. I'll read to you tonight."
"You always say you will! But you always lie!"

Martin took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them.
"I'm not lying, Iona. I just..."

"I want my mama! I don't want you!"

She shouted the last sentence. Claire immediately turned from the counter, came to Iona's side.

"Iona, sweetheart. Let's eat something now, then—"

Claire tried to put her hand on Iona's shoulder. Iona turned suddenly, pushed Claire's hand away hard.

"Don't touch me! I don't want you! I don't want you either!"

She grabbed the glass next to the plate, threw it on the floor. Glass shattered everywhere. She picked up the pink rabbit, ran out of the kitchen. Small bare feet on the hallway floor, then the sound of a door slamming.

Silence.

Martin sat at the table, motionless. His eyes on the broken glass on the floor. Claire bent down, started picking up the pieces.
"Martin, I'll take care of it," Claire said, her voice tired. "You go to work."

Martin stood up. Took his jacket. He brought the cup to his mouth to finish his coffee but hesitated, put the cup back on the table without drinking. As he put on his jacket, he looked around. He felt like a storm had swept through both the kitchen and inside him.

"Claire... We can't go on like this."

Claire stood up, threw the glass pieces in the trash. Then she turned to Martin. Her voice came out slow and low, as if afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"Martin, I met another expat nanny at the park yesterday. She saw Iona's behavior. The child she looks after had some behavioral issues too. She gave me a name. Yasemin, a child psychologist in a center called Compass. Would you like me to send you a text with the information?"

Martin nodded.
"Okay. Send it. Thank you."

He walked out. In the elevator, he took out his phone, saw Claire's message. He read it but closed it and put it in his pocket. When he stepped outside, the cool breeze on his face made him feel better for a moment. Then he sat in his car's cold leather seat that still hadn't absorbed any human scent. There was no doubt in his mind. Claire was right, Iona needed more support.

Iona's mother, Martin's ex-wife Clémentine, was French and Iona had been born in Paris. Her native language was French. She'd also learned some Spanish from her father. They needed to find a specialist in Turkey who could communicate with her. He opened Google. Typed "French-speaking child psychologist in Istanbul." He wanted to solve this now, before going to the office.

He called the first number on the list. "Thank you for calling. However, we can only provide service in Turkish."

He reached the second name. Searched, found the number, called. This time a secretary answered:
"Dr. Ocal's office, how may I help you?"
"Hello, I need an appointment for my daughter. She's five years old. Do you have availability?"
"Let me check... Dr. Ocal can see you toward the end of December."

Martin stopped.
"End of December? That's two months away."
"Yes, sir. That's the earliest I can give you."
"Perfect. In two months my daughter will either get better or turn into a Greek tragedy goddess."
"Excuse me?"
"Good day. Thank you."

He hung up. Leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, closed his eyes. "Mierda," he whispered.

He started the engine, drove to work.
 
The Same Name
At the office, it was past noon. Martin sat at his desk, staring at the computer screen. A cold cup of coffee in front of him. He'd been scanning expat forums: "Parenting in Istanbul," "International Families Turkey." A few more names had come up. They were all either fully booked or only offered service in Turkish.

The door opened. Kerem walked in, files in hand.
"Martin, the meeting's ready. In five minutes—"

He stopped. Saw Martin's face.
"Everything okay?"

Martin looked up. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke.
"I need a child psychologist. For my daughter. Someone who speaks French or Spanish."

Kerem set the files on the desk, sat down.
"How old?"
"Five."

Kerem nodded, thought for a moment.

"My sister's son is autistic. They were going somewhere and they were very happy with it, I forget the name. The director graduated from the same French lycée as my wife. Let me ask."

He took out his phone, quickly typed a message. A few seconds later, the phone buzzed. Kerem read the incoming message out loud.

"Compass. The director's name is Yasemin Sarpel. She specializes in behavioral issues. I've witnessed her speaking fluent French and English with foreign families and children at the child development center many times."

Martin wrote in his notebook: "Compass - Yasemin Sarpel"
"Thank you, Kerem. I appreciate it."

Kerem stood up.
"No problem. The meeting's about to start."

Martin got up but took his phone too. Walking down the hallway, he opened Claire's morning message. He scrolled, read:

"Compass Child Development Center - Yasemin Sarpel - in Beşiktaş"

He stopped. Same name. From two different sources. Maybe it wouldn't be a waste of time.

He walked into the meeting room, but his mind was elsewhere. He put the phone in his pocket, but the name stayed in his mind: Yasemin Sarpel.

After the meeting, he went to his office and sat at his desk. Sixteen unread emails in an hour... He forwarded some to his team, his eyes skimming the ones he needed to work on. But his mind was elsewhere. He pushed the office chair back slightly and picked up his phone. He called the number Claire had sent.

"Hello? This is Yasemin."

The woman was speaking Turkish. Her voice was young, lively, professional. Martin continued in English.
"Hello. My name is Martin del Bosque. I'm looking for help for my daughter, Iona. She's five years old. I reached your name through a referral. Actually, two referrals."

The woman laughed lightly. She continued in English.
"I'm glad to hear that. I'm Yasemin Sarpel. What kind of help do you need for your daughter?"
"She's struggling. We moved from Paris to Istanbul three weeks ago. Her mother and I are divorced. She's... angry, withdrawn. Not eating, not sleeping well. This morning she threw a glass on the floor."

Yasemin's voice softened.
"I understand. Does she speak English like you? I detect an accent in your speech."
"I'm originally Spanish. Her mother was French. My daughter speaks French and Spanish."

A moment of silence. Then Yasemin spoke in French:
"On peut continuer en Français aussi, comme vous voulez." (We can continue in French too, if you prefer.)

Martin closed his eyes, relieved. He continued in French too. Another barrier crossed.
"Perfect. My daughter needs someone who will understand her. Even though she doesn't talk much."

"Let's meet with your daughter first. Tomorrow looks calm for me. If you're available in the afternoon, I can schedule an appointment."

Martin opened his calendar.
"Tomorrow. Okay. What time?"
"How about four in the afternoon?"
"Perfect."

Martin hung up and set the phone on the desk, leaned back. For the first time since that morning, he took an easy breath. He looked out the window. Istanbul's gray rooftops, the sea in the distance, the sky cloudy. He turned back to the screen. He opened the browser, typed "Compass Child Development Center" into Google. The website that came up was simple and professional. But the photos on their pages—the space, the therapy rooms, examples of work with children—were vibrant and colorful. He carefully examined and read through the pages. He closed the browser. The Outlook screen stood before him again. But the emails and appointments looked less daunting now.
 
The Doodle
Yasemin hung up the phone, wrote the appointment in her planner: "Friday, 4:00 PM - Martin del Bosque, daughter Iona (5 years old)"

​​​​​​She started doodling on a piece of paper on her desk with the pen in her hand. She was thinking.

The father had called. This was rare. Usually mothers called, especially if they were divorced. Fathers... fathers either buried themselves in work or chose not to see the problems. Dealing with the child was "mom's job" for most of them. Yasemin had seen dozens of examples of this. Even fathers who had custody didn't come themselves. Grandmothers, aunts, nannies called.

The pen started drawing lines on the paper. Horizontal, wavy.
 
But this father's voice had been different. Controlled, but underneath there was a tension. Yasemin had heard it. Not fragility, exhaustion. "This morning she threw a glass on the floor," he'd said. His voice had trembled a little as he told it, then he'd collected himself.

The pen drew a small shape on top of the waves. Something like a fish. Alone.

Two people had recommended her. He'd researched, asked around. Desperate but cautious. Divorce, relocation, five-year-old girl... Classic trauma combination. But for the father to see this so clearly, to accept it... most parents came to this point much later.

The pen added another shape on top of the waves. A small boat. Alone.

Iona. She spoke Spanish and French. Mother was French. They'd moved from Paris to Istanbul. A little girl, away from her mother, in a new city, with a father alone...

Something tightened inside Yasemin. Something familiar.

The pen drew one more shape. A seagull. In the sky, alone.

Yasemin stopped. She didn't know exactly what she was thinking. She just remembered the man's voice. When they spoke French, he'd relaxed. For the man on the other end, a barrier had been crossed. Small but important.

When she stood up to gather her files, her eye caught on the paper.

She stopped.

Waves. A fish alone in the middle. A boat by itself. A seagull in the sky, wings spread, but alone.

Yasemin frowned. She looked at the pen in her hand, then at the paper. When had she doodled these? She hadn't been aware.

She folded the paper, reached to throw it in the trash. Then stopped. She folded the paper and put it in her drawer, closed it. She grabbed her bag and hurried to leave. It was Thursday. Thursday meant improvised music night with friends at Niko's place. It meant shedding deep thoughts and responsibilities, flowing together.
 
Thursday Night Cacophony
In an apartment in this historic Cihangir building, Niko bellowed with all his might:

"If I talked to women the way you play that accordion, I'd still be a virgin! Put some courage into those chords!"

Yasemin's fingers paused over the keys for a moment. Rolling her eyes, she looked at Niko with a laughing voice.

"Come on, Niko. If you could talk to women the way I play accordion, you wouldn't be sleeping at night hugging your saxophone in your cold bed."

​​​​​​​Niko let out a short, blunt laugh. With one hand he gently stroked his saxophone lengthwise, raised his other hand toward Yasemin.

"No words against my saxophone. Look at these curves. As defined as yours."

Then his voice became serious.
"Play the chords properly. I want to hear the clear pronunciation of a confident woman. Not the groans of an old woman saying 'my back hurts.'"
 
Alex's unnecessarily loud laugh rang out in the living room. Yasemin shot him a playfully angry look.

Yasemin was the only Turk and only woman in the group. All the others were foreigners living in Istanbul. Niko was Bulgarian, Alex French, Tareq Syrian, Moussa from Ivory Coast, and Joris... that nearly two-meter-tall giant with his yellow-red beard and pink cheeks... Dutch.

Yasemin started playing again. That evening, Niko had placed the sheet music for Hungarian Rhapsody in front of the group. Sometimes he distributed such scores to them. Usually Balkan melodies or nostalgic French, Italian songs. Sometimes tango music. When they tried to play pieces with sheet music, the group was terrible. Tareq's qanun, Alex's clarinet, Joris's ukulele that looked like a child's toy in his hands, Niko's saxophone, and Yasemin's accordion playing Hungarian Rhapsody. Moussa had set aside the djembe, trying to keep rhythm by hitting the coffee table in the middle with his hands. If the Hungarian army had heard the resulting cacophony, they might have attacked.

But they didn't care.

All their paths had crossed with Niko somehow. Yasemin had met Niko, who was a professional musician, by chance at an outdoor concert and had taken private lessons for a few years to advance her accordion skills that she'd been playing since childhood.

Maybe out of sympathy, maybe to dispel his own loneliness, Niko had started gathering this group at his home on Thursday evenings. He no longer charged any of them for private lessons. But he had two strict rules:

One. Everyone had to bring a drink or snack for the group when they came.
Two. Egos and responsibilities had to be left at the coat rack when entering.

They didn't always play as badly as that evening. In moments when they played without sheet music, unhurried, improvising, sometimes they flowed in such harmony that they felt like they'd entered a trance, become one soul, and this trance state had become addictive for all of them. They rarely missed Thursday evening gatherings. The purpose? There was no purpose or goal. They simply enjoyed playing together.

When they tried to play the piece for who knows which time, Tareq raised his voice. Tareq raising his voice meant that at least what he said could be heard.

"Niko! I'm trying to play classical music with a qanun. Shouldn't a violinist be playing this in my place?"

Niko shook his head side to side with fake anger.
"No violin, Tareq! Not in this piece either. Not in Balkan songs. Not in tango. We'll make do with what we have. We don't have money to hire a violinist. Now! One... and two... and three... and start!"

The cacophony began again.
 
Martin stood at Iona's door, watching her sleep. Tomorrow at four. Compass. Yasemin Sarpel.

He didn't know what he expected. A miracle? A manual? Someone to tell him he wasn't completely failing?

"Let's wait and see tomorrow," he thought to himself and closed the door slowly.

Question 4

PART 4 | First Session

Accepted Answer

First touch. Wrong place. Right person.
 
The air had turned cool on the bustling streets of Beşiktaş. Martin arrived at the address with Iona—Child Psychologist Yasemin Sarpel's office. The building was modern with a glass facade, softened by a small garden area at the entrance. Two signs hung at the door: Madame Choco and Compass Child Development Center.

​​​​Martin checked his watch: 3:55 PM. Right on time. As they stepped through the building's entrance, the first thing that hit him was an intense cocoa smell. As if they'd walked into a chocolate factory—sweet, roasted, with a hint of vanilla mixed in.

Martin frowned, but Iona stopped, lifted her nose to the air, and murmured in her small voice:
"Papa, is this a chocolate factory?"

​Martin froze for a moment, then did something he rarely did these days: He laughed. There was relief in his voice—Iona's innocent comment had scattered the day's tension, if only for a moment. He bent down and stroked Iona's hair.
"I think there's a production workshop here, mi princesa."
"Then I want to stay here. You can go."

Martin's lips curved into a brief, dry laugh. Iona smiled too and turned her face away.

They took the elevator to the second floor. The receptionist greeted them at the desk and led them to the waiting area. The room was bright and colorful: collages of children's drawings on the walls, toy boxes in the corner, comfortable chairs. Martin settled Iona into a chair and sat beside her. He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen—two emails, three messages. He put the phone back in his pocket.

​Just then, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Martin looked up. A woman was passing by: long wavy brown hair pulled into a ponytail, tall, wearing fitted fabric pants, a white cotton t-shirt, and comfortable Sketchers. An athletic body, natural grace. As she walked away, he kept watching, finding it hard to look away.

He shook himself when Iona's swinging legs in her pink bow-tied shoes distracted him from the chair where she sat. "Great job, Martin. You came to find your daughter's psychologist but you're watching a Victoria's Secret runway show," he thought.
 
​The secretary, a young woman, called from reception:
"Martin del Bosque? Ms. Yasemin is expecting you. This way, please."

​Martin picked up Iona. His daughter's silence had increased in recent days—she withdrew even more in unfamiliar places. He followed the corridor. The walls were light-colored, doors marked with colorful labels: "Play Room," "Art Studio," "Music Room."

​The secretary opened the door and invited them in. The room was bright, both organized and oddly disorganized: neat files on the desk but colorful balls on top of the files, a wide bookshelf with carefully arranged books but toys casually left in front of them. In front of the office desk, a few gourmet magazines, across from the desk a green, wide, plush couch. This place really did look like Willy Wonka's office.

In one corner of the office stood a large black case. Clearly a musical instrument inside. Probably an accordion. But Martin didn't dwell on it. Because his attention was elsewhere—the woman from the hallway was sitting behind the desk. Martin's eyebrows lifted. He set Iona down but didn't let go of her hand. He looked at the framed diploma on the wall behind the woman, then directed his gaze back to her. "No, this can't be Yasemin Sarpel. She can't be this young and inexperienced," he thought. But the woman stood and extended her hand:

"Welcome, Monsieur del Bosque. I'm Yasemin Sarpel."

​In the one or two seconds it took for Martin to turn to Yasemin and take her hand, a dialogue took place inside Yasemin that no one could hear, that even she could barely hear.
 
​​​​​​The first voice called out, "Very attractive man."
The second voice replied, "He's a father."
The first voice didn't stop: "Handsome, tall, sharp gaze. Look at those shoulders."
The second voice: "Shut up. He's a father, a parent."
The first voice: "Charismatic. That slight Spanish accent."

The second voice stood up. "You're at work. You're on the job right now. Be professional!" it shouted, landing punches one after another on the first voice's nose, mouth, chin.

The first voice tumbled to the ground, trying not to give up, attempting to speak again from where it lay.

The second voice kicked it and spat in its face. The first voice pressed its head to the ground and fell silent.
 
By the time Martin's hand touched hers, Yasemin's mind had already cleared. The professional won. It always did. Eventually. Yasemin smiled broadly and comfortably, bending down to the little girl:
"You must be Iona."

​​​​​​Iona turned her head away, leaning against her father's leg. She pressed her pink rabbit to her chest.

Yasemin didn't lose her smile. She crouched to Iona's eye level.
"Your rabbit is beautiful. What's her name?"

​Silence. Iona wasn't looking.

​"There are other rabbits here too, Iona. Maybe they'd like to be friends with your rabbit. Would you like to see them?"

Iona glanced toward Yasemin from the corner of her eye but didn't look at her face. Yasemin continued speaking in a calm, soft voice:

"I'm going to talk with your papa for a bit now. Boring things, grown-up talk. Let me introduce you to Selin. She'll show you the playroom. Not just toy rabbits. There are dolls, paints, Legos. You can just look if you want, or you can play. Okay?"

​This time Iona looked at Yasemin. There was a bit of curiosity in her eyes too.

Yasemin opened the door and called for Selin. A short, chubby young woman with curly hair and a sweet face came in. She bent down to Iona, smiled, introduced herself. When she caught Iona's gaze, she gently extended her hand. Iona took support from her father with her eyes and left the room with Selin. Martin's hands had trembled ever so slightly as he released his daughter's small palms—it didn't escape Yasemin's notice.

​Yasemin sat at her desk and opened her notebook with colorful figures on the cover. She looked at Martin.
"Now we can talk comfortably. You mentioned it briefly on the phone. But could you give me a bit more detail? What brought you here?"

Martin took a deep breath.
"My wife... my ex-wife and I divorced a year ago. Iona was four then. The first six months were difficult, but we were managing. Then I transferred to Istanbul. We moved three weeks ago. Since then... it's been harder. Iona's not eating. Not sleeping. There are outbursts. She can show harsh reactions to both me and Claire, the nanny who came with us from Paris. For example, the day I scheduled the appointment with you, she threw a glass on the floor and broke it."

Yasemin's eyes were on Martin.
"Where is her mother?"
"Paris. They video call once a week. Sometimes Iona doesn't want to talk."

​Yasemin continued asking detailed questions about Iona's sleep and eating patterns, daily routines. Martin calmly answered each one.
"And what do you do? Are you able to spend much time with Iona?"

​Martin stared at the empty space in front of him for a while. He continued speaking without directing his eyes to Yasemin.
"I'm a senior executive at an international firm's Turkey office. So I can't give her as much time as I'd like."

There was something like a confession in his voice. Yasemin closed her notebook. She leaned forward at her desk. Her voice was low and soft.
"Monsieur del Bosque, you're aware of Iona's feelings and problems. Many parents ignore problems in similar situations. But you're here with her today."

Martin looked at Yasemin. This time for a few extra seconds. He studied the woman's calmness, the way she chose her words, the controlled warmth of her voice. But that diploma on the wall... It looked too shiny, too new.

He straightened in his chair and asked in a measured tone:
"How long have you been working in this field?"

​Yasemin tilted her head. She'd sensed the intent behind the question. Still, her expression didn't change at all.
"Six years," she said. "But in this work, it's not about the calendar. The most important number is this: Children usually trust our team within the first ten minutes. Everything else comes after that."

Martin's eyebrows rose for a moment, then his face returned to its previous expression. He'd liked the certainty in that sentence. It was an elegant and well-placed challenge.
"I see," he said simply.

​Yasemin picked up the pen on her desk and continued in the same tone:
"Your concern is natural. Every parent wants to 'be sure' first. But child therapy is also a matter of mutual trust. I'm going to ask the same thing of you."

This time Martin tilted his head.
"Very well. Let's continue."

​"First, you need to understand this: What Iona's experiencing is a natural response. Her world has been turned upside down. No mother, no home, no language. And a five-year-old can't express this in words. She expresses it through her body, through her behavior."

​Martin nodded.
"So what exactly do you offer?"

​Yasemin explained the program.
"The person who'll work with Iona is Selin. Selin is a developmental psychologist, one of our most experienced specialists in child development. She also speaks French, which will be comforting for Iona. We recommend four days a week: two days at your home, two days here at the center. The home sessions will help Iona feel safer in her own space. The sessions here are important for socialization and adjusting to new environments."

​​​​"What kind of work?" Martin asked. His voice was neutral, evaluative.
"Play therapy, art therapy. We'll create safe spaces where Iona can express her emotions. Without pressure, at her own pace."

Martin raised his eyebrows slightly and didn't try to hide his ironic smile.
"Play therapy."

​Yasemin caught the dismissive tone. She smiled.
"Yes, Monsieur del Bosque. Play. Because play is children's language. You might express yourself through Excel spreadsheets and presentations. Iona will express herself through toys and games. Any problem with that?"

Martin leaned back. A smile seemed to appear on his face, but his eyes were still evaluating.
"Your fees?" he asked.
"The fees are reasonable, as you may have noticed. Because Madame Choco covers most of the expenses. The chocolate workshop downstairs is mine. This place stands partly because of it. We run low-cost or free programs especially for children on the autism spectrum. Iona's situation is different, of course, but the reason I established this center was so children could receive support regardless of their financial situation."

Martin's eyebrow lifted.
"The chocolate workshop is yours?"
"Yes. I make chocolate and run this center. The two actually feed each other."

Martin seemed about to say something, then stopped. This wasn't the point. The fees really were reasonable.

​Yasemin leaned forward at her desk and lowered her voice.
"So how are you, Monsieur del Bosque?"

Martin looked up.
"Me?"
"Yes. New city, new job, taking care of Iona alone... How is it affecting you?"

Martin's lips curved. It wasn't a smile, more of an "I was expecting this" kind of expression.
"I'm managing. Thank you."

His voice had closed on the last syllable. Yasemin understood, this consultation had reached its limit. There was no need to push. She'd already gotten the information she needed anyway.

"Selin will share her observations about Iona with you shortly. We can decide together on the days she'll work at the center. You can arrange the times for the home sessions with Selin as well."

​Martin stood. Yasemin rose at the same time. Their handshake was firmer when Martin left through the door.
"Thank you," Martin said.

​​​Just as he was leaving, he turned back toward Yasemin. For a few seconds, he looked at the black instrument case again. He gestured with his head. He narrowed his eyes—there seemed to be a hint of mockery in his voice.

"Psychologist, entrepreneur, musician... Do you juggle too?"

Yasemin let out a short laugh, but in that brief laugh there was such a rhythmic resonance, like a rubber ball bouncing off the walls of the room and quickly entering Martin's ear.
"Actually, yes, I can juggle. The children find it very entertaining."

​Martin shook his head with a smile. He left the room. Yasemin looked after him one last time and closed the door.

The first voice was still lying on the ground. But its eyes were open and it could still breathe.
 
Small Hands, Big Changes
That Saturday morning, three days after their first meeting, Martin was on the living room couch in comfortable pants and a t-shirt. The blue light from the laptop in his lap illuminated his face. He was doing final checks on the eighty-page report to be sent to headquarters in France.

​Claire, the nanny, was in the kitchen preparing French-style chicken. Iona hadn't eaten breakfast again. Maybe she'd eat this chicken, she hoped.

​At exactly 10:00 AM, the bell rang. Selin had arrived with French punctuality. Claire started to move from the kitchen counter. Martin lifted the laptop from his lap onto the couch and made a "wait" gesture with his hand. He stood up immediately and opened the door.

He let Selin in. Selin was smiling, her sharp nose contrasting with her curly hair and chubby cheeks.

"Good morning, Monsieur del Bosque," she said. The Turkish accent behind her French made itself known.
"Come in, Selin," Martin greeted her politely. Inside he was thinking, "This girl must have walked out of a Tim Burton film."

He'd had to look down while speaking. Selin's height was maybe 155 centimeters at most. The huge backpack behind her nearly touched the ground. But the powerful energy radiating from the sincerity in her smile could reach the ceiling.
"Where's Iona? Let's start right away," Selin said.

Martin pointed to the room at the end of the hallway with his hand.
"In her room," he said. "But I should warn you, she's in a bit of a mood again today. There was another incident at breakfast."
"Okay, no problem," Selin said.

​She headed straight for Iona's room. She pushed the door open.

Martin stood a few steps back in the hallway. He heard Selin start talking to Iona, then silence. Then Iona's initially resistant voice, then her curious voice. The door was ajar—he could see: Selin had sat cross-legged on the floor, drawing something with finger paints. Iona had gotten off the bed and was watching from a distance.

Claire came out of the kitchen and stood next to him. Silently, she looked inside over Martin's shoulder. Iona had now sat down next to Selin. She was holding out a pink paint.
"The rabbit doesn't have a plate," Iona said. "Let's draw a plate."

Martin held his breath. His daughter was playing, having fun. For the first time in a long while. He turned his head back from his shoulder. Claire whispered:

"I think I need this kind of therapy too."

Claire pulled her extended head back and turned toward the hallway. She took a few steps and murmured under her breath:
"Though you tend to prefer other types of single-session therapies..."

​Martin looked at Claire for a moment. He knew what she meant. The meaningless one-night stands after the divorce. Strange women whose names hadn't even stuck in his memory. Claire sometimes commented on this beyond her place. But since Martin knew she was thinking of him and his daughter, he didn't warn Claire about it. So he chose to pretend not to hear:
"Sorry, what did you say, Claire?"

Claire turned to look at Martin, this time speaking louder:
"I said I'll make you a coffee."

Martin nodded, saying quietly,
"That would be good, thank you." He directed his gaze back to the room.

​Half an hour later, Selin came out with Iona. Iona was holding a drawing—a pink rabbit on it and a plate full of carrots. Martin crouched down.
"This is magnificent, mi princesa," he said. "Where should we hang it?"

Iona pointed with her finger to her room's wall.

As Selin gathered her bag, she spoke quietly:
"She did beautifully today. She started expressing herself. A few more sessions like this, and we can include her in group activities at the center."

Martin stood up and picked Iona up. She wrapped her arms around his neck, tight.
"Same time tomorrow?" Selin asked.
"Yes," Martin said. He was having trouble speaking. The warmth of Iona's arms was filling his chest.

As Selin headed for the door, she stopped.
"Ms. Yasemin will call about the session report this week. Standard procedure."

Martin nodded.

He closed the door behind Selin. He rocked Iona in his arms a bit and placed a kiss on her hair. The weights inside him were lightening.

​He noticed something shift inside him when he heard the name 'Yasemin.' He filed it away. Irrelevant. For now.

WARNING: The story shared in this site is an adult literary fiction with mature themes and situations. Some parts of the story contains explicit erotic scenes. Intended for readers 18+.

CHAPTERS

PART 1 | Unpacked

PART 2 | Perfect on Paper (+18)

PART 3 | Compass

PART 4 | First Session

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