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.
