The autumn wind in Rotterdam was no joke. The moment the automatic doors of Schiphol airport slid open, the freezing air immediately slapped my face, slipping beneath the thick trench coat I had bought in Jakarta the day before I left. This was a wet cold, laced with the scent of rain—a cold that felt liberating.
I dragged my suitcase out, my eyes scanning the crowd of people waiting at the arrivals area. The people here were tall, walking briskly with wide strides, and nobody cared about how I looked. No one was giving me cynical looks, no one was whispering, "That's George Richards' daughter who caused the scandal."
Here, I was just one out of thousands of foreign faces. And it was a relief.
"Celly!"
A familiar baritone voice called out to me. I turned toward the barricade.
Standing
