It was a long time coming. I knew it, my mother knew it, even he knew it. It felt like a regular day in the beginning; too small shoes, squeezing like snakes, and a bologna sandwich for lunch. Then a teacher, face grim like she’d seen death with her own two eyes, came up and told me my mom was here. I was confused, it was the middle of lunch, why was mommy getting me? Wasn’t it dad’s day to come get me? Questions were running through my mind as my feet crunched towards the car. I got into the car and asked mom, is he dead yet? She didn’t say anything, just cried. The car ride to his apartment was the longest I’ve ever experienced. Screeching to a halt by the curb, the house, his ghost, loomed over us, nearly blocking out the sun. I asked mom if I had to come with her, if he was still in there. She said yes and dragged me up the steps. The door opened and the smell of cigarettes and death rolled through the air. My head down and feet firmly planted on the rug, I risked a glance upward. Daddy’s favorite table was pushed to the side and this metal rolling bed was in it’s place. Something was lying on the metal bed, a body, a shell devoid of life and empty of soul. Terrified, I ran into the bedroom and hid in dad’s bed until mom picked me up and carried me out. She put me back in the car and drove me home, to mourn, to heal, to forget the images my five-year-old mind had never wished to see.