The two girls jumped over the hopscotch they had drawn on the curb with white chalk. It was their favourite game and they would be at it for hours.

Everyone in the area knew them. Knew that five days a week, they would be at it, religiously. Never a weekday passed without the same scenario being played out.

They also knew why. The girls were waiting. Waiting for the moment. The moment he would be home. Be home, arms akimbo, demanding his share of their love, hugs and kisses. Giving them all of his, without any holding back.

They were still in nappies when their mother left with another man. He had sweated and toiled all these years, suppressed his own needs and desires, to give his girls the lives they deserved.

Weekends were many 'whales of times' and the whole neighborhood smiled indulgently and partook of the happiness.

Until that fateful day, when they were just eight and nine. He didn't come home. Instead, the police did, bringing news of the accident.

I can swear, I wake up at nights, and can hear the patter of little feet, playing hopscotch on the curb.