“How are you?” he asks. He always asked that.
You answer, “Fine.” You always answer with fine.
He mumbles something incoherent. You itch your ear and study your toes.
“Give the phone to your mummy.”
You’ve been waiting for that. As if it was a hot piece of yam, you drop the phone quickly into your mother’s waiting hand.
She scowls at you before smiling to the phone.
You wonder idly if like you she had stop caring. It has been twelve years after all. Twelve years since your father left for America and you last saw him.


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