It’s 2009, I’m at the computer desk revising for my last exam of the year. My sister is in the next room watching tv, maybe it was ‘home and away’, I can’t be too sure. Boredom and curiosity lead me to Facebook where I’m pleasantly greeted with a little red icon. A sudden cloud of dread hangs over my head. The content of the message became a blur and I found myself reading and re-reading the signature, as if it was highlighted in a neon colour accompanied with flashing lights – warning lights. A growing, painful lump forms in my throat as I hold back the tears. I couldn’t let my sister see me so I signed out and locked myself in the bathroom, quietly crying to myself.
“It’s so nice to see you. I have finally found a way. Please acknowledge this message.
Your dad.”
‘Your dad’.
Eighteen years ago my father left home. My brother was twelve, my sister was eight, I was one.
N.Y
