May-lee Chai

“His face was slack, his mouth turned down, and his eyes puffy-looking without their glasses over them.
He lay very still. I held my breath, suddenly thinking something terrible, something terrifying, but then he breathed out, very slowly, his chest falling from under the chenille throw that was supposed to be in the family room. I wanted to wake him up immediately, the way I had when I was a little girl and I needed something right away. One year I'd gotten up at dawn for Christmas, but Mama said we couldn't open any presents until everyone was awake. Papa slept late on holidays and by mid-morning I couldn't stand the wait. I filled a glass with cold water from the kitchen and brought it to the bedroom and poured it on his face. He hadn't been angry. But I didn't dare do that now. I wasn't a little girl anymore, I couldn't pretend I didn't know better. I crept back to the edge of the staircase and sat on the bottom, my knees bent against my chest, my head against my arms, the tags on my bra scratching at my skin. I didn't even have a book to pass the time, but it didn't matter. The answer I needed wasn't in a book. Instead I sensed that I should sit, I should be patient, I should wait like this until my father finally woke up.”
― May-lee Chai, Useful Phrases for Immigrants: Stories