Until he suddenly dropped out of school for a year and moved away when I turned seventeen.
I didn't understand why he left without a word or why my father suddenly became so busy that he was always in the hospital, returning home with bloodshot eyes and bruises on his face.
My mother often cried while holding me, and our door was constantly pounded on by unknown people, the knocking relentless for hours.
I hid under the table, clutching my head, too scared to make a sound.
I dreaded that knocking; it felt as if someone were about to break in and kill us.
"Do well on your exams, Annika." That night was the last time my father came home, stroking my head with a loving smile.
I could never have imagined that the next time I would see him would be in a hospital bed. He was covered by a white sheet, his pale face looking cold.
I heard from the hospital staff that it was a medical dispute. My father had accidentally caused the death of a patient on the operating table, and the patient's family pursued him for months, spreading rumors that he was a quack. In the end, just as they wished, he was struck in the head by a ventilator and died.