"Wake up, sleepyheads! It's been three years since your father left us to work abroad—and today, he's finally coming home!" Mom called out, her voice echoing through the quiet morning. "Tidy up your rooms—and Anne, please set the table for breakfast."
Outside, the sky was cloaked in soft, grey clouds. The palm trees in our yard swayed gently in the morning breeze, dancing as if they too were celebrating. The air was crisp, and the first golden rays of sunlight began to stretch across the earth. As I gazed out the window, a warm smile crept across my face. Then it hit me—Dad was coming home.
Three long years had passed since he left to fulfill his duty overseas. Life without him had been anything but easy. My mother carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, raising us—three young children—on her own. His return was meant to lift that burden, to bring peace, and finally, joy.
At exactly 8:45 a.m., just as we were settling into breakfast, there came a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" Mom called, rising to answer.
She opened the door to find Mr. Philip—a close family friend—standing solemnly on the porch. "Mr. Philip, please come in. Would you like something to drink?" she asked politely.
Mr. Philip had been a longtime companion of my father. He, too, had journeyed abroad for work, leaving behind a loving wife and two young children. But today, something was different. He stood there alone, his eyes sunken with sorrow, his body heavy with grief. There was no sign of my father.
"Thank you, but I'm fine," Mr. Philip said quietly. "How are the children?"
"We're all doing well," Mom replied, her voice tinged with unease. "But… where is Chris?"
Before she could finish, Mr. Philip's composure crumbled. His voice broke as tears streamed down his face.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "Chris... he's gone. He passed away two weeks ago. He was ambushed by a group of criminals... they beat him to death."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Then came the screams.
"No… no, this can't be true! Noooooooo!" Mom wailed, collapsing to her knees. "Why, Chris? Why did you leave me so soon? Who will help me raise our children now?"
Her cries pierced the air, raw and heart-wrenching, until her strength gave way and she fainted. We rushed her to the hospital.
My younger siblings were too little to understand the depth of what had just happened. But I knew. I understood. As the eldest, the weight of the truth hit me with full force. I was shattered. My body trembled with disbelief and rage. Who did this to you, Dad? Whoever took your life will answer for it.
He was more than a father—he was my hero, my anchor, my guiding light. How could he be gone... without even saying goodbye?
That night, Mr. Philip stayed by Mom's side at the hospital, keeping watch until she finally opened her eyes.
"Anne," he said softly, placing a hand on my shoulder, "take your siblings home and keep them safe. You're eighteen now. You're strong. You can handle this. It is well."
The house felt heavier that evening. The laughter that once filled its rooms had vanished, replaced by an eerie silence. I held my siblings' hands tightly as we walked home from the hospital. Their little faces were blank, confused by the tears and whispers they didn't understand.
When we got home, I tucked them into bed, pretending everything was fine—just as I knew my father would have done. I stood by the door for a long moment, watching their chests rise and fall in sleep. They looked so peaceful. Too peaceful for a world that had just broken apart.
I went to the living room and sank into Dad's old armchair. His scent still lingered—faint, comforting. I closed my eyes and let the memories flood in: his warm hugs, his jokes, the way he used to toss me in the air when I was small, the late-night stories he told when the power was out.
I whispered, "I miss you, Dad," but the words were too small for the ache I felt.
Days passed. Then weeks. The funeral was small but filled with people who loved him—neighbors, colleagues, church members. Mr. Philip spoke with grace, his voice cracking only once. Mom was quiet throughout, like a ghost trapped in her own body.
But grief wasn't the only visitor that came knocking.