Flicking through my photo album for the second time that night, I felt emotional.
I had stared at the same pictures of my dad, Bachir, over and over.
Tracing my hands over the pages, I wondered what kind of dad he would’ve been.
Would he have picked me up from school like other dads?
Would he have sat on my bed and read me to sleep?
After all these years, it felt like I was no closer to meeting him in person.
The only communication we’d ever had was through a video call.
My mum, Patricia, would phone him when I was little and I’d sit in.
Although I could see his face, seeing him through a laptop screen was never enough.
And when our FaceTime calls stopped at aged eight, he was left to my imagination.
My mum told me they’d broken up when she was pregnant with
