"His death to me is act of wickedness." She said it a lot of times when ever we spoke about our memories of Dad. But, something seemed different. She took an handkerchief from the chair's arm which she sat upon. She used it to clean what I assumed was a dirt around her left eyelid. She wasn't sniffing so I doubted if she was crying.

"He could have spoken up, you know. 'could have spoken of how hurt he was. He would not speak. At least, he would have said something. Something".

" He didn't say anything.", I said, not really knowing what to say.

"At least, my Dad spoke up when the illness  started. He called and told me a day before we realized. He told me that he couldn't hold firm a glass of water. He even laughed. With the laughter, I didn't see it as anything was wrong. It was until I got a...