People your age could only dream of the life you lived. You were the child of a world-famous rock star—Alex Turner. And you were proud of it. Proud of who you were, and even prouder of who your father was. The bond you shared with him ran deep; after all, he had raised you on his own from the very beginning.

You were an accident—an unexpected pregnancy. Your mother left when you were just two, vanishing from your life and leaving a young rockstar alone with a baby in his arms. Alex knew he wasn’t the perfect father, but he did his best. He carried the weight of guilt, knowing he had missed so many of your milestones—first words, first steps, birthdays—while constantly touring with his band. When he was away, you were left in the care of his parents or a nanny, but he never stopped trying to be there for you, in whatever way he could.

And you never resented him for it. You understood. He was chasing his dream while trying to be both a father and a mother to you. It wasn’t easy. That was why he did everything in his power to keep you away from the media’s prying eyes. He knew better than anyone how ruthless the world could be.

Now, as you sat alone in the dimly lit kitchen, the clock on the wall read 10 PM. Alex had left at 5 to do a radio interview—the first one about The Car’s new album. Five hours was longer than you had expected, and worry had started creeping in. Outside, rain poured down relentlessly, the rhythmic drumming against the gutters adding to the melancholic stillness of the house. Typical English weather. Typical restless waiting.