"This is not a time for happiness," she says, taking immediate control of the situation. Her voice is strained by the weight of what it carries. She turns to me, and something in her face changes.

"It's your father," she begins. And then stops, the next words caught somewhere deep. Perhaps she is searching for the right way to say it. Perhaps she is weighing the moment, knowing she is about to change my life forever.

Alison Storry was seven years old when she learned her father had been murdered, a casualty of the Troubles in Northern Ireland. She was in a friend's garden. It was August. These are the kinds of details that stay-not the grief itself, which arrives too large for a child to hold, but the ordinary things standing next to it.

Within a year she was sent away to boarding school in the English countryside, where she learned what children learn when no one gives them the words for loss: how to build a self that doesn't need the words at all. It was a useful self. It got her through-through a modeling career across Asia, through marriage entered into, as these things often are, in hope of safety. The safety didn't hold. Betrayal ended it; divorce followed close behind. And the life she'd spent decades constructing-carefully, competently, brick by brick-finally came apart.

What was left, underneath, was the seven-year-old in the garden, still waiting.

Fatherless is Storry retracing all of it-the grief, boarding school, Asia, marriage-without the armor this time. Then an investigator's letter finds her, carrying word of another woman shaped by the very same loss, from the other side.

What Storry discovers is not only the answer she'd been waiting fifty years for.

It is grace.