A Daughter's Love

She brings in his tea at three o’clock, just like always, because the doctors say regularity will help his recovery. There should be nothing unexpected in his daily routine. And it’s worked, most of the time. Her last set of bruises are completely healed.
He sits, as always, in his favourite old chair; the one he’s had since forever, his soft grey curls just showing above the high back. He’s facing the TV, watching soaps; the only programmes considered safe viewing for him. He hates them, but still he watches, as if it’s an obligation. It’s his only link to the world outside, no matter how plastic and fake. For him, these days, even cartoon violence is to be avoided.
Dust motes swirl in a ray of golden sunlight that shines across the room; a room in which time has stood still. Not since he returned from the war has a picture been changed or an ornament moved. A lesson learned by her mother and now practiced by her. The strip of sunlight marks the point of no return. And it’s been long enough now that she doesn’t fear crossing that line. Even so, she’s careful to make sure her wary footsteps announce her presence, not too loud; but as loud as the ticking of the clock or the hum of traffic passing on the street. Sounds that are both familiar and comforting to him in their regularity.
She takes a deep breath before speaking. “Dad, I’ve got your t...”
A car backfires in the street outside. Children playing in their gardens shriek and giggle at the violent sound. She jumps, and then worries her lip. Her eyes dart toward the chair and she sees his reaction as if in slow motion.