I was lying in bed when my mother shook me, who said, “There was an accident.” I was still a chubby seven-year-old in my Ninja Turtle pajamas. I was used to being woken before dawn, but only my father did that and only let me pray on the little carpet with the spire of the cathedral. But my mother never woke me up like that. It was only eleven o’clock at night and Father was not at home. Lately, he often stays at the mosque in Jersey City until late at night. But for me, he has always been a loving, funny and warm father. Just this morning, he was trying again to teach me to tie my shoelaces. I wonder if dad had an accident? What kind of accident? Was he injured? Or will father leave us forever? I dared not ask my mother because I was too afraid to hear the answer.