The coffee was kept on the top shelf of the cupboard. I lifted my leg to the counter and pushed myself up. My boney knees wobbled on the cool linoleum as I reached for the giant red can of Folders. Although I was only seven, I was already a coffee making pro. Pavarotti’s voice blared into the kitchen from the living room—my dad sang along with the sad clown.
I had seen in movies, that a cup of coffee sobered people up, it hadn’t worked on him in the past, but that didn’t stop me from trying. I brought the steaming mug to his side and placed it on the table next to the ash tray, in front of the 20 ounce plastic cup of whiskey and water. I hoped that he might take a swig of my creation by mistake. I was used to seeing my father like this—it was an average night at the Rudhe household. My dad would drink, my mom would work and I would play in my room. That night’s routine however, was interrupted by my father’s serious tone, “Noël.” I turned and met him eye to eye. He had crouched down, his cold hand embraced my wrist. “You can do anything! You can be anything, anyone, go anywhere! There isn’t anything you can’t do,” He chuckled, and released my wrist, “just don’t forget to try.” He retired to his chair and lit a cigarette, I took the opportunity to run to my room and play with my Barbie.
