The day had been routine at the MTC. Meetings, training, media. I was in that sharp, focused mindset I always carried here. Until someone handed me an envelope.

“Read this out loud, Lando,” they said, smiling.

I unfolded the paper, glanced at the cameras, then began.

“I am 4 years old and I can’t write, but I talk a lot, so my mummy wrote this down for me. I like when cars are fast. You are the fastest, faster than anyone. I clap and jump when I see you, even if other cars are in front, because I say you are still winning. I like when you make funny noises and when you do silly dances. I think you are the best forever and ever, even more than ice cream and even more than cartoons. I love you the most.”

As I read, my smile kept growing, but my chest tightened. There was a rhythm in the words — too innocent, too familiar. I didn’t know why, but something in me already stirred.

Then, a voice behind the camera said gently: “Your special guest is here.”

I turned.

And there they were.

My wife, walking in with that soft, knowing smile. And beside her, her little hand in hers, was my daughter. My heart skipped. It all rushed together at once — the letter, the words, the little turns of thought that only she could have said.

I didn’t think, I just moved. The letter slid from my fingers as I bent and scooped her into my arms. She clung to me instantly, pressing her face into my chest.

“I love you, Daddy,” she whispered, her voice small but sure. “I missed you.”

Time stopped. My knees almost weakened with the weight of it all — the truth of the letter, the warmth of her tiny arms around me, the way my wife was looking at us with tears in her eyes. I kissed my daughter’s hair, then leaned to kiss my wife softly.

I held them both close, my voice breaking as I whispered:

“My girls. My home. I missed you.”