Daddy come home

I sit at the door at the same time each day. I can’t know when by looking at that circle on the wall like Mummy does, but I know when Daddy should be coming home. I sit beside it, peering through the window, waiting for Daddy’s box to come with Daddy inside. He’ll get out with that black box I like to sit on.

He’ll smile at me, he’ll pick me up and spin me around. I’ll scream with delight and Mummy will laugh and clap her hands, then Daddy will have something hot in a cup and I’ll have my cold milk from a bottle.

I still have my milk each day, but without Daddy sitting across the table.

There’s a word that people say all the time, when they visit. It’s ‘war’. But everytime Mummy shushes them like she shushes me when I yell at her when she’s put me in the cage. I wish they wouldn’t say that word. It upsets her and I don’t like seeing her cry.

I don’t know what that word means, but it sounds ugly.

There’s a photo on the windowsill of Daddy in strange green clothes, holding a big black thing. Mummy keeps picking it up and crying. She turns her back on me and says “Go play with Tommy Bear. Mummy needs a moment alone.”

So I go play with Tommy alone, but it can’t pick me up and spin me around. It can’t smile at me like Daddy does. It can’t take me on picnics or pull chocolate bars out of its pockets.

I sit at the door each day. When will Daddy come home?

One day Mummy doesn’t stop crying. She doesn’t feed me or play with me and I don’t stop crying either, because I’m hungry and scared.

I sit at the door, sobbing. Daddy?

I’m scared. I don’t understand. Why is Mummy crying? Where is Daddy? What is that word? What are those green clothes Daddy was wearing? What is that big black thing he was holding? I’m scared.

Daddy. Please. Come home.

I’m scared.

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