After three relentless weeks of airports, contracts, and forced smiles across Asia, only one thing mattered now: holding his eight-year-old twin daughters, Lily and Grace. They were his reason for everything.
He had flown home two days early without telling anyone. He imagined the house glowing with light, the girls running toward him, Sarah calling their names. He pressed the accelerator, as if speed could bring that moment closer.
The gate opened automatically. Then his chest tightened.
The house was dark.
No lights. No warmth. Just silence.
Daniel stopped the car, heart pounding, scanning the yard. And then he saw them.
Under the old maple tree, two small figures huddled together, soaked and shaking. Mud stained their clothes, rain plastered blonde hair to their faces. Lily and Grace.
For a moment, the world disappeared. He heard nothing but his own pulse. They looked abandoned—left there to endure the storm alone.
He jumped out and ran, slipping on wet grass, his suit ruined, not caring. The girls looked up as if unsure he was real, then threw themselves into his arms.
“Daddy!” Lily sobbed.
“Don’t leave again,” Grace whispered, clinging to him.