A bittersweet moment going back to my parents’ home. I remembered most of the people who had attended daddy’s funeral. I had been away for a couple of years, but always in touch with daddy.
Lying on my old bed, I remembered how daddy used to tickle my feet to get me up for school.
I woke up at dawn, daddy tickling my feet felt so real.
The next night, I woke up again. Daddy was tickling my feet. I giggled and squirmed like I used to. “Stop it daddy!”
The voice was ugly, dark, distorted. “I’m not your daddy.”