I was eight years old when my father just vanished. A normal drive back home, one like any other, not worth remembering suddenly turned into the most important and tragic event in my life. My mother was at the wheel, driving our old Toyota, I was in the back seat, and he was in the passenger seat. It was late at night, we were returning from a school event, they were talking, as usual, speaking about how well I had done at the recital or something. Suddenly, dad told mom that we should stop for a second at the gas station, he had to do something quickly, mom let out a giggle and pulled over, we sat and waited for a bit. As the minutes slowly and painfully turned into an hour, mom's expression changed from patience into worry, and then into something I hadn't seen before in her: fear. She got off, leaving the car door open behind her, the cold air of the night brushing against my fur, I grasped the armrest firmly. Not even two minutes passed, she had returned, alone, "E...