Daddy come home

2:45 AM on the clock. I'm on the 5th floor of a hospital, in its waiting room. It’s been an awful week. Actually, it’s been an awful month, no wait, awful year. Daddy was admitted last night for a tumor. It was surgically removed today. Now, he lies somewhere in the ICU, probably medicated enough to not know what exactly transpired. My eyes feel incredibly heavy, but it’s just impossible to fall asleep on this wooden chair. Mum has thankfully asleep on the bed. I look around at all the sleeping bodies strewn across the room; it feels like a refugee camp in here.

Then, in the security of the darkness, the tears burst forth. I can cry now, because nobody is watching. I can cry now, because I don’t have to pretend to be strong. I can cry now, because I can’t tomorrow. I never thought I’ll have to see this day, spending the night lying awake in a hospital waiting room while my dearest daddy lies partially conscious in the ICU – bed no. 12. Daddy is not daddy anymore, he is bistar number baara. Suddenly I feel so cold and alone. I wish someone would call or text me and tell me everything will be alright tomorrow. But the phone remains quiet.

I start to feel the hollow of not having that special someone to confide in, to cry to, and who will love me without obligations or because I’m a blood relative. Am I being selfish? I guess I am. I can’t do this right now. My family needs me to be strong and I am going to fulfill that duty.

I just hope this is the first and last time we have to spend the night in this god forsaken room. Daddy get better soon, so we can go home! I miss you already.