He had been studying engineering when I was born.
Then Mom left for groceries one Tuesday afternoon and never came back.
Dad withdrew from college the following week, borrowed a hard hat, and raised me in the same tiny apartment.
Money was always scarce.
Dad repaired his boots with glue, stretched meals for days, and once divided his only sandwich after I caught him pretending he had already eaten.
Whenever I asked why he worked so hard, he kissed my forehead.
“Because you’re worth every sore muscle, Daddy’s Bug.”
I promised that someday I would buy him a house, take him on vacation, and give him peaceful Sundays.
Then cancer took him eight months after the diagnosis.
At the apartment, I emptied the grocery bag across the kitchen table.
“Don’t explain anything for him,” I said.
Birthday cards scattered over the surface.
I opened one decorated with a cartoon ladybug.
