I call out as I walk into the house. The noise of the hammers and table saws jar my head. “In here.” I can just about hear him shouting and make my way through the hallway to the kitchen. “Morning.” “Morning son,” he looks up and smiles at me, taking the coffee I hand over to him. “How are you feeling?” “Fine,” I shrug. I’m hardly going to tell him that I feel like I got smashed in the head with a hammer, because I know for sure he’d make me leave. My eyes survey the room and I take in all the progress we have made. I know I asked Dad to do the kitchen out of his sequence, but I am happy he agreed. I wanted Bailey to have a beautiful place to sit and feel loved, in the event my surgery goes wrong. My dad moves around the room, and checks out fittings and makes sure they are all where they are supposed to be. I have been wondering why he is doing this, why he is helping with a house, when his normal clients are multi-billion dollar corporations or governments. I get a feeling Bailey has him wrapped around her finger, which I can’t complain.
