It's Sunday morning, 11 am.

Dad still hasn't come home.

Mom has been pacing the floor for hours. She tried to call him several times, but his cell phone is switched off. I can see that she's worried, and it kills me that I am the reason for this mess.

Everything would be so much easier if I didn't care for him.

But I do. I love him. I really do.

I still remember the first time I tried to ride a bike.

I was five years old, and had just gotten this cool red bike for my birthday. I had wanted it for ages, and couldn't wait to try it out. So I went outside with dad, got on that bike and - of course - fell off. I cut my knee really bad. It hurt like hell, I was crying and utterly convinced that I never wanted to ride a bike again.

Dad took my hand, pulled me up from the ground and said: "Son, get up. I tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna put a band aid on that cut, I'll buy you an icecream, and when you're done, we're gonna give it another try. Never, EVER give up if things don't work in the first place." And that's what we did. And I still remember that fantastic feeling when I actually rode my bike without falling off.

I felt invincible. And dad was so proud. He had this huge smile on his face.

And now, all I want is to see this smile again. I want him to take my hand and pull me up, and watch me grow. I want to make him proud.

But I have the feeling that this won't happen any time soon.

Dad, for God's sakes, come back to me! I need you. I need you to tell me that I can handle this. I need you to tell me not to give up. I need you so bad.

But all I get is silence.