My name is Alden Pryce, and for many years I convinced myself that ambition was a kind of devotion. I told myself that leaving home would buy a better future for my child. I told myself that distance was temporary and that success would eventually stitch every gap closed.

When I boarded a flight from Riverside Bay to Manchester nearly two decades ago, my daughter Talia Pryce was only eight. Skinny elbows, quick laugh, and a habit of collecting questions in a tiny blue notebook. Why did the moon sometimes appear in daylight. Why did clocks tick louder at night. Why did grownups look so tired after promising they were fine.

I knelt beside her at the airport. I kissed the top of her head. I promised, “I will build something strong enough for both of us. You will never have to worry again.” The words felt true. They still feel true even now.