BENITA CELESTINE

“Dad?” I murmured, standing at the entrance to my apartment with a middle-aged man staring at me. He didn't look like he did when I was ten; some parts of his hair had turned grey, and his face had so many wrinkles. He wasn't well dressed like he used to also, and his skin looked pale.

I shut the door to avoid others listening to our conversation and stood at the balcony staring at him, “My daughter,” his elderly voice echoed out, “You have grown so much, I could ...