My sister was worried he would not show up, but she was the only one. My mum was in the kitchen, cooking my dad’s favourite meal. I was sitting at the counter, glancing at the door every few minutes. Knowing he would come, come back home. My brother was clutching our beautiful, brown camera, ready to take pictures of him when he returned.
Lying in bed, I cried. The news had hit me hard; dad was gone. He had been diagnosed with cancer four years ago and he was supposed to come home from the hospital today. The doctors were sure about that, but they were wrong. Wrong about everything.