She grew up learning the shape of her father’s name from the backs of jerseys and the tops of arenas, not from birthday cards or late-night talks. His legacy was a language she never became fluent in, spoken through commentators, contracts, and crowds. To the public, he was mythic. To her, he was mostly buffering icons and unanswered rings. The world argued over whether she deserved more, less, or nothing at all, as if love were a prize to be won by committee.
In the end, she discovered that the harshest exile isn’t poverty or scandal, but being edited out of someone’s story while they remain the center of yours. Empires can afford lawyers, PR teams, and crisis managers; daughters must learn to afford the truth. One night, she stops rehearsing what she’ll say if he ever calls—and, for the first time, imagines a future that does not wait.
