The rain continued pounding against the windows as I sat on the cold kitchen floor beside my daughter.
I had built a billion-dollar company from nothing.
I had negotiated deals with some of the most powerful people in the world.
I had sat across from executives who tried to intimidate me, investors who doubted me, and competitors who wanted to destroy everything I created.
But nothing in my entire life prepared me for the look in my daughter’s eyes.
Fear.
Not the kind of fear a child feels during a thunderstorm.
Not the kind of fear that disappears after a nightmare.
This was different.
This was the fear of a child who had learned that home was no longer safe.
“Maya,” I whispered, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Look at Daddy.”
Slowly, she lifted her eyes.
Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she quickly wiped them away with the sleeve of her oversized sweatshirt.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The words hit me harder than anything else.
Sorry.
My little girl was apologizing.
For what?
For being hungry?
For existing?
For wanting to sit at the same table as everyone else?