My name is Gabriella Randall, though everyone calls me Gabi. I’m twenty years old now, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt a deep, almost magnetic connection to the elderly. Maybe it’s because I grew up without grandparents of my own—they all passed away before I was old enough to know them. My parents would tell me stories about them, though, and I always felt like I’d missed out on something special. My mom would describe my grandmother’s laugh, how it sounded like wind chimes on a breezy day, and my dad would reminisce about my grandfather’s endless supply of corny jokes. Those stories made me yearn for a connection I never had.

So, when I was in high school and our community service club organized a trip to the local retirement home, Whispering Pines Haven, I jumped at the chance. That first visit changed everything for me.

I remember walking into Whispering Pines Haven with the rest of the service club, my heart pounding in my chest. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, mingled with the comforting aroma of freshly baked cookies from the kitchen down the hall. The faint hum of televisions playing old sitcoms and the soft murmur of conversations filled the space. It was overwhelming at first, but also strangely comforting.

Mrs. Henderson, a petite woman with silver hair and a warm smile, was the first resident to approach me. She had a book of poetry clutched in her hands, and her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“You look like a reader,” she said, her voice soft but confident. “Would you mind reading a poem to me? My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

I hesitated for a moment, glancing at the other students who were already pairing off with residents. “Of course,” I said, taking the book from her. I flipped through the pages and landed on a poem by Emily Dickinson. As I read, Mrs. Henderson closed her eyes, a serene smile spreading across her face. When I finished, she opened her eyes and patted my hand.

“You have a lovely voice, dear,” she said. “It’s like sunshine. You should come back and read to me again.”

That moment stayed with me. It was the first time I felt like I’d truly made a difference in someone’s life. From that day on, I was hooked.

I started volunteering at Whispering Pines every weekend, reading to the residents during my junior year and through the first half of my senior year. The staff quickly took notice of my dedication, and before long, I was hired part-time after school and on weekends. My duties were simple: chat with the residents, read to them and help out in the common areas. At first, I was only allowed to interact with the ladies under supervision, but as I earned their trust, I was given more freedom.

One of my favorite residents was Mr. Thompson, a retired history teacher with a passion for storytelling. He’d sit in his favorite armchair by the window, his hands resting on his cane, and regale me with tales of his travels around the world. His eyes would light up as he described the bustling markets of Marrakech or the serene temples of Kyoto.

“You remind me of my granddaughter,” he said one afternoon, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “She’s about your age, but she lives across the country. I don’t get to see her much.”

I smiled, feeling a pang of sadness for him. “Well, you’ve got me now,” I said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Everything changed in the days following my high school graduation and my eighteenth birthday. My parents had always been supportive of my volunteering and work, and they knew how much Whispering Pines meant to me. But nothing could have prepared me for the graduation gift they gave me—a gift that would alter the course of my life forever.

“Gabi,” my mom said, her voice trembling with emotion as she handed me a small envelope. “You know we’ve always supported you in living authentically. When you were younger, you felt comfortable being yourself at home, even without clothing, among family and close friends. Over the years, as you found your calling working with the elderly, you’ve spent less time with us in that way. But years ago, we wanted to give you something that would allow you to live your life authentically ... once you were an adult.”

I opened the envelope, my hands shaking, and pulled out a certificate. My heart sank as I read the words: Permanent Nude (PN) Registration for Life.

“What ... What is this? You know I work at a retirement home!” My voice wavered, caught between confusion and anger.

My dad stepped forward, his expression a mix of pride and apprehension. “It’s a lifestyle choice we made for you years ago, Gabi. When you were eight, you insisted that you wanted to live naked as an adult. We thought it was the right thing to do at the time, but we didn’t fully understand the implications. By the time we realized it was irreversible, it was too late.”

A wave of panic washed over me. “Irreversible? What do you mean?”

My mom gently interjected, “Being PN isn’t just about shedding clothes. It’s about shedding societal expectations, embracing freedom, and living authentically. It’s a commitment to living your life without the constraints of what others think.”

I stared at them, my mind racing. “But ... What about Whispering Pines? What about my job? How am I supposed to work there if I’m ... if I’m forced to be permanently nude? Can this be reversed, or do I have to take my clothes off now? I’m scheduled to work there full-time for two weeks on Monday at eight. What should I tell my boss? Am I supposed to show up there completely naked?”