YOLANDA
I just got home, and my dad was sitting in the lounge in the dark with a bottle of whiskey on the table, untouched.
It is past nine in the evening. I haven’t eaten all day, and I am so hungry, but before I could eat, I know my father wants to talk to me about what happened today.
I turn on the light and sit in front of him. I am so relieved to see him sober, but what does the bottle on the table mean?
“Baba?”
“Yolanda,” He responds indifferently.
I am so nervous, and I don’t even know what to say. I cannot read my dad right now, and I am wondering if he is aware of what I have been up to today. I know he has been trying to call me all day, but I have been rejecting his calls until he stopped calling. A part of me tells me he is upset but chooses not to show it.
“My lit
