The confused and nervous look on his face had me almost laughing hard again. “We’re going to the cemetery now?” he asked, a hint of panic audible in his voice.
Honestly, I couldn’t find the reason for him to react that way especially when he knew my Dad was already dead. “No. Come, follow me,” I said, leading him out of my room.
We passed through the small bathroom, that was at the top of the stairs. Then, we reached his room which was on the west side, facing over the front yard. Every detail of his room—the chestnut walls, the platform bed with cubbies where Dad’s books and some magazines were placed, and the portrait of a Christian cross—was etched into my memory. That was one of my ways to remember the father who raised and treated me as his own daughter even though we’re not blood-r
