I picked up the gift box and removed the lid. A book on healing from family trauma stared back at me. My heart skipped a beat as I combed my fingers through the pages. I’d asked him to heal me, and this was his response. Some women would be offended, but I was in awe of his effort. As I strummed through the book, a brown note fell out and into the palm of my hand. My eyes scanned the message. You asked me to heal you, but I can’t. I can only offer my hand to hold while you heal yourself. I glazed over the message a few more times, allowing it to seep into my soul. London was truly unlike any
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