When I got to London, I checked into my hotel, took a quick shower, and headed straight for the estate.
I was tired. Exhausted. Drained.
What I felt inside was nothing compared to what I was feeling on the outside. My body felt heavy—like it was carrying the weight of every loss I’d ever endured.
I felt weak. Vulnerable.
It reminded me of the day I saw Dad’s body—lifeless. Cold. And there was nothing I could do but stare.
When the shock finally wore off, I cried. No, I wailed.
I couldn’t save him.
I wasn’t there when the bullet pierced his head.
I wasn’t there when he needed someone the most.
Not when he was fighting for his life in some strange, unfamiliar place.
There was no family. No familiar face. Just… silence.
He was always there for me. Always. And the one time he
