In front of us, our empty plates. “Kids,” Dad said. He didn’t really look at us; it was just a tentative, passing glance. Probably because he didn’t want to catch our eyes and risk dragging us down with him into the opening abyss. It was the day after Christmas. I was fifteen. My little brother Johannes was sitting next to me, on my left. Steffi, my older sister, was on my right.

Mom had placed the soup bowl on the table. She was sitting silently next to Dad.

“Kids.”

“We need to tell you something very, very … We need to tell you …” Dad’s eyes teared up and his voice broke, and we stared at him, startled. He never cried.

When my father got cancer, we prayed desperately. No answer came. Or did it?