that being admitted to the hospital wasn’t that serious. Actually, I don’t even remember how I learned that mom was in the hospital. Was it dad who told me? Was it my granny who finally broke the silence and explained the situation in detail to me? No, I wasn’t told anything in detail actually – I had to find the information myself by pieces. Some sort of a lame detective I was. Dad didn’t come home that day either. Well, he did, but it was just for a few moments. You know, the interesting thing is that before that day we weren’t really close – in fact, we were almost like strangers. I didn’t bother asking him what all the fuss was about, though he probably was the only person who could give a proper answer – he wouldn’t, no, not really, he wouldn’t put it all on me, he was to keep things secret from me. And he did that job amazingly well. Who even hides the reason a person went to the hospital? I don’t remember the rest of my day. Was I busy with homework? Was I nervous? Did I see something coming? Did I feel it? Did I really go to sleep having no idea that my mom was in a coma? It sounds absurd in hindsight. Knowing all the minor details of that fatal day now, I still can’t fully recollect it in my mind. It’s all blurry and gray, and miserable. There is this pity, anguish, and confusion that I wish to never go back to. There had been that uncertainty that took six months to settle. Or maybe it hasn’t gone now either?
7
