Ọnụọgụgụ ụda

I miss my dad. Not loudly, not dramatically. I miss him in silence… in quiet mornings, in moments when I wake up alone, in moments when I achieve something small and there’s no father to say, “I’m proud of you.” I was just four or five years old when my childhood ended. That day, my mom asked me to take some money to my dad’s room. Someone had left it behind. She told me to give it to him. I walked into his room… and froze. He was lying on the bed. Foam was coming out of his mouth. White foam.