SundaysThe sunlight seeps through the blinds, but I am awoken to the sound of chatter and laughter. The smell of bacon leaks through my door. I get up. I stumble to the kitchen, pet the dog, and walk in, for a moment the atmosphere is heavy with disease, a sickness. I look up and suddenly it’s overtaken by the smile of my dad. He says ‘Set the table!’, I set the table. We all sit, we eat, we talk, we laugh, all while the radio plays in the background. The dog wants to play, I play with him. Sunday morning was perfect. / Next week, Sunday. I wake up, stumble into the hallway, pet the dog, say ‘good morning papa!’, I go to the kitchen, the air still heavy. I look up, I see my mum, the smell of baked bread covers the apartment. She says ‘Set the table.’, I set the table. We all sit, we eat, and we talk, as the radio plays in the background. The dog wants to play, I play with him. Sunday morning was nice. / The next Sunday after. I wake up, it’s silent. I stumble to the hallway, pet the dog, say ‘good morning papa!’. I’m now in the kitchen. Mama is making porridge. She hands me a bowl. I go the master bedroom. I hand the bowl to papa, he asks ‘Can I have my pills please?’, I fetch it and hand it to him. I go back to the kitchen, take my bowl, go to my room. I sit, I eat, and I don’t play with the dog. Sunday morning was fine.