Daddy

Like any other day, I grabbed my morning cup of coffee and headed to the office to begin my day of work. I sipped my coffee quietly as I worked on a pencil sketch, preparing myself for calls to start coming through the queue. I had only been on the clock for one minute when a call comes in on my cell phone; I don't recognise the phone number, but the area code is familiar to my hometown. I answer the call, shutting myself off from the queue, an uneasy feeling wafts over me.

There was a doctor on the phones with news about my Dad. He had been brought to the hospital the night before. The doctor tells me that my Dad has a massive inoperable bleed in the centre of his brain, and I need to get there as soon as possible to say goodbye, while he is still lucid. Broken-hearted, I gather my husband and kids, and we make the journey home. Eight hours later we arrive.

"Daddy," I say, "I'm here," tears streaming down my face. I think there was some recognition that we were there, but he could no longer speak.