Returning early after three months, the millionaire choked back tears, expecting his daughter to run into his arms. Instead, she whispered, “Daddy, you’re back early.” Stepping inside, he saw her shivering in rags, while his wife lived in luxury. He froze, knelt down, and asked softly, “Who did this to you?”

mark, the thick, ugly calluses on her palms had dissolved into soft skin. A year later, her trauma specialist quietly informed me that Isabella had ceased referring to herself as “the servant” during their play-therapy sessions. She had finally reclaimed the title of “the daughter.”

That evening, I walked out to the exact spot in the garden where I continue reading …