The tears came suddenly, hot and stinging, and I didn’t care who saw them. I was alone, truly alone, for the first time in my life. The noise of the airport seemed to fade into a dull roar, and I felt like I was in a bubble, separate from the world around me.

I clutched my bunny tighter, as if it could somehow shield me from the harsh reality that had just crashed down. The idea of “figuring it out” was terrifying. I was just a kid, a vulnerable eight-year-old with no clue how to get home from this bustling, unfamiliar place.

But, in the depths of my despair, a small voice in my head reminded me of something I had almost forgotten. My father. I hadn’t seen him in years, not since my parents divorced. He was often a shadowy figure in my life, always present in the stories my mom told me, usually with a bitter twist. But one thing she never failed to mention, regardless of her feelings, was that he was wealthy. Extremely wealthy.

I pulled out my phone again, my hands trembling. I didn’t have his number, but I remembered seeing it once in a letter he had sent me last Christmas. I frantically searched through my backpack, tossing aside crayons and coloring books, until I found the crumpled envelope. My heart leapt when I saw the familiar handwriting.

With trembling fingers, I dialed the number, my hope hanging by a thread. Each ring felt like an eternity, and I was on the verge of giving up when a voice answered. Deep, calm, and unmistakably his.

“Hello, this is Marcus Bennett.”

“Dad?” My voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

There was a pause, and I heard him inhale sharply. “Leah? Is that you?”