Richard Whitman’s pulse raced as the cab stopped in front of his two-story home in the suburbs of Chicago. After three exhausting weeks of meetings in London, he was finally returning.
In his thoughts, the picture was vivid: Emily, his seven-year-old daughter, rushing to the door shouting “Daddy!”; baby Alex babbling happily in his chair; and Vanessa, his wife of only two months, greeting him with a gentle smile.
That was what gave his life purpose: the family he was certain awaited him at home.
He stepped out of the taxi, luggage in hand, heart swelling with anticipation. He had brought small souvenirs from abroad: a storybook for Emily, a soft bear for Alex. He pictured their laughter, the joy echoing through the house.
