Watching someone else’s dream come true is a blessing.

A tiny moment in which you have the privilege of witnessing that person’s joy, their unadulterated happiness when the one thing they’ve wished for is standing right in front of them.

It’s a high like no other, a selfish and selfless act at the same time. Knowing you are making it possible, and that you’d do whatever necessary to allow them to soar.

That’s what I do for a living. I watch as children’s greatest dreams are fulfilled, and then simultaneously as they themselves are pulled away from this world.

I watch them run with the greatest athletes on earth, scream their little lungs out on the rides at Disney, giggle as they make a cameo on their favorite television show. And then I swallow the bile in my throat as their mother’s attach their oxygen tubes, or give them a needle in the middle of Magic Kingdom, or shield their brittle bodies from the sun because being outdoors too much will compromise their immune system.

Over the years, my stomach has become a vault of steel, I’ve trained my tear ducts to become immune. But there are still those cases that wiggle their way under your skin, flay you open and make you hurt.

That’s how it is with Ryan Gunter. The seven-year-old boy who was recently diagnosed with the same cancer I watched dismantle my own brother years ago.

“We’re taking this one.” I throw the file on the gray-washed oak table in the conference room.

“Demi, we are so overloaded as it is, maybe we can wait until next month …” My vice president of operations, Farrah, shifts her eyes to the six other employees sitting around the table.

“I don’t care. We’re taking this one. I’ll work the extra hours, get the paperwork passed through, I just … this is one of mine.” My light brown bangs fall a little into my eyes, and I realize I need to visit my salon for a cut.

Every so often, one of my staff at Wish Upon a Star would claim a case as theirs. Some illness, or a kid they became attached to from reading the file, that was close to their heart. And even if we were buried in work, even if it would burden us to take on another case, no one said a thing.

That was how it was now, a silent compliance falling over the table.

“Okay, Gina, tell us where we are at with the other cases.” My hands smooth down my hunter green dress, the fit and flare a good color match for my creamy complexion and milk chocolate-colored hair.

I was the boss, the face of my nonprofit. While it felt materialistic and superficial to worry about curling my hair and strapping on stilettos each morning, it also showed the world that I was a serious business woman. And that gained me clients who would work with us, so it was a necessary evil.

My marketing coordinator ran through the current children we were trying to grant wishes for, and what was left in each case to get it done. Currently, we had ten children who needed their wishes fulfilled in the next two months. My team was talking to the professional baseball team in New York, a connection at the White House, a resort in Aruba, and the pop princess who was on her million-dollar world tour right now.

I’d started my company five years ago on a wish and a prayer with the inheritance I’d received when my grandfather passed. He had always supported my dreams, and when he’d left this world, I knew that it was time to do what I’d been thinking about for years. Every time I’d settle into my six-hundred-square-foot apartment back then, after a long day at the public relations firm I did grunt work for, I would think about starting this nonprofit that made children with incurable illnesses happy. To give a little part of joy to the families who were suffering, because I knew all too well what that was like.

With hard work and elbow grease and just a few too many hours sucking up to useful connections, I’d built my business into a wonderful, successful charity. People heard the name Demi Rosen, and they knew I could get things handled. They knew I could make dreams come true.

“Let’s get a drink, I think after today, we’ve earned it.” Farrah comes into my office at the end of the day.

Looking around the room that is my private office, closed off from the rest of the beautiful space Wish Upon a Star occupies in one of the nicest buildings in downtown Charlotte, I think she’s right. My office, as much of the entire space, is primarily made of floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlook the bustling city. While it isn’t New York or Chicago, our secondary city is a busy place in its own right. Modern furniture, desks with each employee’s personal touch, and walls lined with black and white photos of our wishes granted over the years complete the space.

The one expense I do splurge on is fresh flowers weekly for our office. It seems to keep everyone’s spirits up, and when families come to visit, a beautiful bouquet just sets them at ease or gives them the smallest boost of cheer.

“I think I’ll take you up on that.” I pick up my leather satchel and follow her out.

We arrive at McDaniels, the bar around the corner, in the swing of happy hour, and are lucky to find a table.

“Why do I feel like we get older every time we come here?” Farrah’s trim snakeskin patterned slacks and white bell sleeve blouse make her look anything but.

She’s edgier than I am, with a jet-black bob and a nose ring. When I’d first interviewed her, I hadn’t thought we would be able to work together. But, it turned out, Farrah was the yin to my yang when it came to running the business. And she has also slowly developed into one of my closest friends.

“Because most of these kids don’t even know what the word 401(k) means yet.” I flag down a bartender and order us two gin and tonics, having been very practiced at the two-for-one special they ran.

At thirty years old, Farrah and I were on the older end of the scene here, but it wasn’t as if we looked the part.

Farrah stretches her neck. “Damn, I need to get laid.”

She was, unlike me, very casual about sex. Often, she’d regale me with her tales of hookups gone wrong, and gone oh so right.

“Well, you have many eligible men to choose from.” I waved my hand around the bar.

She shrugged. “Eh, these are boys. I’d eat them alive. But it doesn’t mean they’re not your speed. Let me be your wing woman.”

She’s pleaded this before. “Nope, you know my rule. No dates, no men.”

“Are you a lesbian? Come on, seriously, you know you can tell me.” Farrah has posed this question before.

I chuckle. “I would have no problem telling you if I was, but no. Honestly, it’s just simpler this way, cleaner.”

She sighs and turns away, people watching and finishing her drink.

I nod to myself, knowing I’m right. If you never let anyone in, at least intimately, you never got hurt.

And I was never going to allow myself to be hurt again.