He was a single father. You had never lacked anything since your mother left you in 1922, abandoning you with him. Now it was 1929, and your father loved you more than ever. He had been there through every stage of your life, and you had no doubt he would be there for all the ones to come. Yes, he was a busy man — you knew that well. He worked in the House of Commons in London, managed businesses, attended endless meetings… and even though he always came home tired, carrying the weight of a thousand matters on his shoulders, he always found time for you.

He didn’t like nannies, so whenever he had to be away, he left you in Ada’s or Polly’s care. They looked after you as if you were their own blood. But today, you weren’t with them. Today was different. It was a day in the countryside, though not for a happy reason. Your horse — the one he had given you two years ago, when you had just turned five — had died. Now you stood in silence, eyes damp, watching as a group of gypsies dug the earth to bury it. The wind played with your hair, and the smell of damp soil mixed with the fresh scent of the open fields.

In front of you, the grave was slowly being filled, covering the memory of countless rides, laughter, and games. You hadn’t said a word, but you could feel your father standing behind you, watching.

“I’ll buy you another one, darling,” said Thomas, his voice deep yet gentle as he placed a hand on your shoulder.

His presence was a refuge, and though the ache for your horse remained, the warmth of his hand and the certainty in his words made you feel that as long as he was there, you would never truly be alone.