In the Early Morning

You enter my bedroom in the early morning and, as usual, I pretend to sleep. Fear sips through my peach-colored sheets, even though I know I shouldn’t be afraid of you. You’re my dad and I know that you love me, that you would never harm me. Not intentionally at least.

Through the thin sheets I see your figure, walking toward me, a hand stretched forward. But then, at the last minute, you retract it.

“Sofie,” you say and when I don’t respond you sigh a deep sigh and sit at the edge of the bed, your light body barely leaving any impression on the mattress.

I know you want me to look at you, but I can’t. Looking at you would mean to be fully aware of your presence, and your presence would remind me of your absence, so I don’t.

Light comes through the open window, filtering through the curtains, signaling the arrival of dawn. I can smell the coffee beans roasting in mama’s kitchen. Soon, she’ll call me to get breakfast, go to school, and keep up with our daily routines. You know you don’t have much time.

“Please, Sofie.”

I shake my head, but I don’t lower the sheets. “I can’t,” I whisper. “You need to go.”

“Please, sweetheart.”

“No,” I say, raising my voice. “Mama said you’re not real.”

You stop, as if I’d slap you. Then you turn around and your back hunches. Your hands form a triangle on the top or your nose. My heart beats faster, worried that I hurt you. What if you don’t come back this time?

“Dad?”

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I didn’t leave.” You pound your chest, as if to prove you’re truly here, and then you reach out.

A whimper escapes from my throat, and I start crying.

“Please don’t cry, sweetheart.”

“Mama said she’ll take me to a doctor,” I sob. “She said that nobody else sees you, that I’m going crazy.”

You look at the ceiling and sigh. “You’re not crazy…and it’s not your fault.”

My heart twists, realizing that I made you sad. I sit on the bed, the sheets falling over my pajamas. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It’s ok, sweetheart.” You give me your big smile, the one that was always reserved for me, the same one you tried to give me the last time I saw you, when you came to say goodbye before heading for work.

If I had known, I wouldn’t have turned my back on you. I wouldn’t have hidden under the sheets, blaming you for the argument that kept Mama crying the whole night.

You move closer. “I’ve got to go now. I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“No, daddy!”

“I must, sweetheart.”

“Will you come back?”

You look at me, your hand reaching out for my head. Your touch is cold, like the bed-sheets in the early morning. You kiss the top of my head, and I can feel your lips grazing my forehead. “Mama is wrong, you are real.”

“I’m as real as the love I feel for you.”

“I love you too, daddy.”

“Be happy, okay? And don’t tell Mama I was here.”

I nod and you smile.

Mama yells from downstairs, calling me for breakfast. When I look back, the bed is empty. The curtains flutter with the breeze, its edges following the wind through the open window.