Writers 
HIS PERFECT WIFE
My name is Amara, and when I was eight years old, I thought my family was perfect.
Not perfect in the way people meant when they talked about money or beautiful houses. We had neither.
We lived in a small rented house with faded walls and an old roof that leaked whenever it rained. Mama always complained about the roof, while Daddy would laugh and tell her that the roof was only doing its best.
I loved that house.
I loved waking up to the smell of Mama's cooking. I loved hearing Daddy's voice before I even opened my eyes. Most mornings, he was already getting ready for work, humming some old song I didn't know.
Daddy was my best friend.
Whenever he came home from work, I would run to the door.
"Welcome, Daddy!"
He would lift me up, even when I was getting too heavy.
"Ah, my big girl!"
"I'm not big."
"You are big. Soon you'll be taller than your mother."
Mama would hear us and shout from the kitchen, "Don't encourage her!"
Daddy would laugh.
Those were the moments I thought would last forever.
I didn't know that forever could change so quickly.
One evening, Daddy came home much later than usual.
I was sitting on the floor doing my homework when I heard the door open.
"Daddy!"
I jumped up and ran to him.
He smiled when he saw me, but something was different.
He looked tired.
Not the normal kind of tired.
The kind that made him look like he had carried something heavy all day.
"How was school?" he asked.
"Fine."
"Any trouble?"
"No."
He nodded and walked past me.
I watched him carefully.
"Daddy?"
He stopped.
"Yes?"
"Are you angry?"
He turned around and smiled.
"No, princess. I'm fine."
But I knew he wasn't.
That night, I woke up because I heard Mama and Daddy talking in the sitting room.
Their voices were low at first, so I couldn't understand what they were saying.
Then Mama's voice became louder.
"You can't keep doing this!"
I sat up in bed.
Daddy said something I couldn't hear.
Mama started crying.
I quietly opened my bedroom door and stood near it, listening.
"We don't have enough money anymore," Mama said.
There was silence.
Then Daddy sighed.
"I know."
"Then what are we going to do?"
Another silence.
"I'll fix it."
"You've been saying that for weeks."
I didn't understand what they were talking about.
Money had never meant much to me. I knew Daddy worked. I knew Mama cooked. I knew there was food in the house most days.
That was enough.
I went back to bed before they could notice me.
I pulled my blanket over my head and closed my eyes.
I told myself Daddy would fix everything.
He always did.
At eight years old, I still believed my father could solve every problem in the world.
I didn't know that this time, he couldn't.
And within months, the life I knew would disappear completely.
