"She's six years older than me, born before Dad ever met Mom," I say, my throat tightening slightly. "She grew up with a dad-shaped cutout in her life – this huge, empty shadow where a parent should have been.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
"I knew my Mom was gone, Locke. There was closure in that, as painful as it was. But Willow grew up knowing her father was probably alive, but she had no photos, no stories, no men in patches showing up to watch her back. She had nothing."
"Zara..." Locke murmurs, his tone shifting, softening as the reality of it sinks in.
"She spent her entire childhood searching for something to fill that empty space," I say. “Honestly? I think that's why she got so deep into the hippie stuff, the communes, the spiritualism. She was desperate for a home. Desperate for
