I still remember the day, the day my father disappeared. I was in second grade. I wasn't feeling good so I stayed home from school. I still remember my dad's smile, his laugh. He was a single father but one of the most happiest people I have met. We were playing cards, go fish, I was winning.
Then there was a knock on the door, my dad, still laughing, goes to open it. When he opens it all the color drains from his face. He looked like he was about to cry. A man stepped into the house, he was wearing a light brown suit and black dress shoes. His eye were so sad. I felt like there was no happiness or fun ever. I started to weep to myself.
I hear my dad and the man talking, but they were talking in a different language, not spanish or french, something I didn't recognize. The man looked at with those eyes full of sorrow and pain. He brought my father outside. I waited for my dad to return. 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes. He didn't come back.
I ran to the door and looked out. No Dad. The car was still there but he wasn't. I ran out the door. Screaming "Daddy! Daddy!" there was no answer. I started to cry, I sat there in the lawn crying. A hand came down on my shoulder. I turned my head, expecting to see my father. Instead, I saw my neighbor, Natalie. This only brought on more tears. She picked me up and brought me next door. She gave me hot chocolate, I told her the story in between sobs.
She picked me up and brought me to the police station. We sat in the lobby. She told me to sit in one of the seats, while she went over and talked to the women at the desk.
That is how I ended up at the orphanage. I am the oldest person here at 15. Some day, I hope I can find my father, and that horrible man, who took him.
