London, UK. September 6 2005

It was a typical Tuesday, a day like any other in the quiet rhythm of our family life. The morning sun slanted through the blinds of our flat on Carnegie Street. My husband, Thomas, a creature of habit, had left for work around 7:45 AM, his keys jingling as he locked the door. I then brought the children, Laura, a bright-eyed eight-year-old, and Joshua, our inquisitive six-year-old, to Copenhagen Primary. The walk was familiar, filled with their chatter and the soft, morning light on the pavement.

After dropping them off, the day was mine. I went to the gym, a part of my routine that helped me feel centered. It was about 9:15 AM when I arrived at Go Mammoth on Killick Street. I spent an hour on the elliptical machine, my mind wandering as I listened to a podcast. The rhythmic motion was a kind of meditation. Afterward, I showered and headed to Kings Cross for some leisurely shopping, enjoying the buzz of the city without the usual rush.

At 1 PM, I met my friend Kimberly Derrickson at Café Oz on Caledonia Road for lunch. The café was a cozy, bustling place, and the aroma of coffee and fresh pastries filled the air. I had a crisp salad with grilled chicken and a glass of chilled white wine. Kimberly, a vivacious woman with a flair for the dramatic, told me about her latest dating disasters from the weekend. We laughed so hard that other patrons glanced our way. The time slipped by, a bubble of carefree friendship, and at about 2:30 PM, I went back home.

The afternoon was as ordinary as the morning. I put on a podcast and worked through the week’s laundry, the rhythmic spin of the washing machine a comforting sound. I hoovered the floors, the low hum of the vacuum cleaner a soundtrack to my domestic tasks. The quiet of the flat was serene. The children arrived home around 3:30 PM, their boisterous energy filling the space. I helped them with their studies until 4:30 PM, watching as Joshua struggled with his phonics and Laura confidently worked through a math problem. When they finished, they went out to play with the neighborhood kids, their shouts and laughter drifting up from the street.

At 5:30 PM, the children came back inside, their cheeks flushed from playing. They went to their rooms to get ready for dinner. I started cooking as soon as they came in. That night, I made bangers and mash with a rich onion gravy, Laura's absolute favourite. The smell of frying sausages and simmering potatoes filled the flat, a smell that always felt like home.

Thomas arrived home at 6:15 PM, as always, his briefcase setting a new beat in the house's rhythm. At 6:30 PM, we all sat down to dinner. The conversation flowed easily. Laura, ever the storyteller, recounted in vivid detail how two girls had been squabbling in the school restroom. Her dramatic retelling had Thomas laughing, and Joshua, quieter but just as engaged, listened intently as he worked through his multiplication tables.

We finished dinner around 7 PM, and the children helped me clear the table while Thomas changed out of his work clothes. The clatter of plates and the sound of his footsteps upstairs were all familiar, all comforting. Around 7:15 PM, my father called. He was a successful property developer, and it was always good news when Dad sold another property. He told me he'd sold another one earlier that day, the pride in his voice as clear as day. I hung up the phone feeling content, a wave of calm washing over me. We were safe, we were comfortable, and we were a family.

At 8 PM, we sat down as a family to watch the evening news. The world, it seemed, was as uneventful as our day. There were no major crises, no breaking news stories. Everything was quiet.

Then, the door to our flat busted open. The sound was like an explosion, shattering the peaceful evening. Four men, dressed head to toe in black cargo pants, jackets, and hats, ran inside. Each man had a massive, intimidating gun strapped to his chest, and their movements were swift and precise. It was terrifying, a scene straight out of a movie that was now my reality.

The children began screaming right away. Their high-pitched terror was a sound I’ll never forget. Thomas, with the kind of primal instinct that only a father has, stood up to fight them off. But there were too many of them, and they were too organized. They were a well-oiled machine, cold and efficient.

Before I could fully process what was happening, I saw two of them pick up my children. They used rip ties to bind the children's ankles and wrists together, like they were tying up packages, not my babies. Laura and Joshua's screams intensified as they were carried out of the room, their small bodies struggling against their captors.

I screamed and tried to get to them, to push through the men to save them, but one of the men was holding me, his grip like a vice. He pulled me out of our flat, away from my family. I saw my husband being tied up and left on the sofa, his eyes wide with a combination of rage and helplessness. Thomas was screaming the children’s names, his voice raw with fear. I could still hear Laura and Joshua's muffled cries from the back of the house as I was dragged away.

The men who had carried my children away returned to the living room and joined their group. There were four of them, and they now had me. We left the flat and headed down the stairs to the street below.

In front of our building was an electric works van parked on Carnegie Street, its white paint pristine under the streetlights. The four men guided me to the truck, and we all got inside. A fifth man, who had been waiting in the driver’s seat, was the only one wearing regular clothes. I remember his bright pink polo shirt and his short, curly blond hair. His was the only face I saw clearly. He had such a friendly face, with wide-set blue eyes that looked kind and calm. His eyebrows were neatly trimmed, and his crooked smile was warm and soothing. It didn’t match the terrifying situation at all.

He looked me in the eyes, his expression calm, and said: “Don’t worry, everything is going to be just fine.” His thick London accent was a stark contrast to the menace of the men around me. The scent of stale cigarettes and cheap aftershave clung to him. As he was driving, I noticed he took a left on Charlotte Terrace and then a right on Copenhagen Street, a familiar route. As we were going past Bernard Park, one of the first four men put a pillowcase over my head, at which point I could no longer see where we were driving. The world went dark, and I was left alone with my thoughts and my fear. All I could hear was the hum of the van and the pounding of my own heart.