Sofia was running through the sprinklers with Copper bounding at her heels, and Valeria and Marisol were spreading a picnic blanket on the grass.

I sat down beside them, and took a slice of watermelon from my daughter’s hand, and I understood something fundamental, something the whole ordeal had carved into me.

I had built skyscrapers, and luxury hotels, and commercial towers worth billions of dollars.

And I had come within a hair’s breadth of losing the only thing I had ever actually owned that mattered: the trust of my children.

Danger, I learned, does not always break in through a window.