A Coolvalstories Production
Episode 1: The Search for Love
My name is Catherine Miller. I’m 47, a registered nurse from Columbus, Ohio, and a mother of two grown kids. After 18 years of marriage, I found myself suddenly single again. The divorce wasn’t dramatic—just two people who outgrew each other, and a quiet signing of papers over lukewarm coffee at the county courthouse.
For a while, I told myself I was fine. I threw myself into work, took up a few yoga classes, and binged true crime documentaries on Netflix like it was a part-time job. But the truth was—I was lonely. Not just “I miss cuddling” lonely. I mean deep, aching, existential loneliness. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones after too many nights of no one asking how your day was.
Friends kept saying, “Try online dating. That’s where everyone meets these days.” So, one evening in May, I poured a glass of red wine, opened my laptop, and signed up for Facebook Dating.
At first, it felt strange. Like putting yourself in a digital shop window, hoping someone decent would stop and look. Most of the messages were either creepy, cringy, or flat-out inappropriate. But then I saw James Carter.
He was tall, handsome in a rugged sort of way, with a salt-and-pepper beard and soft hazel eyes. His bio said he was a 52-year-old civil engineer from Dallas, a widower, with one adult son living in California. He liked fishing, old-school jazz, and “deep conversations over morning coffee.” Everything about his profile felt… mature. Grounded.
He messaged me first:
“You have the kindest smile. Mind if I say hello?”
From that point, we talked every single day.
James seemed different from the other men I’d encountered online. There were no cheesy pick-up lines. No rushed invitations to “meet up.” He asked thoughtful questions: about my kids, my patients, my favorite childhood memories. He even remembered my dog’s name—Oscar—after I mentioned him once in passing.
Within a week, we moved to WhatsApp. He said it was easier to talk there, especially since he was about to leave the country for a short contract job in South Africa. I didn’t mind. It felt natural, seamless. And I was enjoying the conversations too much to stop.
He’d call me every morning before my shift started, just to say, “I hope today treats you gently.” He always sent goodnight messages, filled with poetic charm:
“Sweet dreams, my queen. May the stars guard your heart till morning.”
No man had ever spoken to me like that. Ever.
The more we talked, the deeper I fell. I started daydreaming about him. Imagining what our first real date would be like. How he’d smell. What it would feel like to hold his hand. He’d even talked about coming to visit me once his job abroad was done. Said he couldn’t wait to meet my kids.
I found myself smiling again. Laughing at my phone like a teenager. I started wearing lipstick to work. My coworkers noticed. My daughter noticed.
“Mom,” she said one afternoon, “you’ve got that glow.”
I laughed it off, but I felt it. Hope. That scary, delicious, dangerous little word.
One evening, about three weeks into our “relationship,” James told me he had landed in South Africa and that the job was going well—except for some minor banking issues. He said his account was temporarily restricted due to a foreign transfer block.
“It’s just a temporary hold. I’ve got plenty of money. I just need to pay a small clearance fee for my tools and equipment so the job doesn’t get delayed. I’ll wire you the full amount once it’s sorted. Can you help me out?”
It was $200. I didn’t even hesitate.
After all, we were practically dating. We’d shared our secrets, our pain, even our plans for the future. I knew his voice, his laugh, the shape of his smile. I felt like I knew him.
I had no idea I was being slowly reeled into a well-orchestrated trap.
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