C8 Your Daughter

My car door opened, and a young woman in her twenties stepped forward.

“Welcome home,” she greeted respectfully, bowing her head slightly.

“Home?” I murmured, almost to myself.

Is this really happening?

A faint smile formed on my lips as I met her gaze again. “Thank you.”

“I’m Trisha, your personal assistant. Nice to meet you, please come in,” the woman said.

“Same here,” I responded