Dad came in the midnight. We heard every sound, but we pretended to be asleep. Next morning he looked weak and thin, sitting in a chair by the kitchen fire. The light of the fire shone through his long empty sleeve. Everything went as usual. Grandma found something to do in the bedroom. Grandpa went out for some water. Mother, with her back to us, was getting the cakes ready for breakfast. But nothing was right. When grandma came out of the bedroom, she walked on tiptoe. When grandpa came back, he said nothing about the weather. At breakfast Mother passed us the fruit and said something, but her voice was too high. At last my sister, Lou, pushed back her chair. "It's your turn to wash the dishes." But I had washed the dishes the night before. I said nothing because it was not right to quarrel in front of Dad just home with the empty sleeve. "It is your turn," Lou said again. I looked at her in surprise. "It is not," I said because I suddenly remembered Mother had told us to go on as usual. "Children, children," Mother said in a quiet, glad kind of voice. And Dad was smiling because he felt at home at last. What do you know happened to Dad in the story?
He was badly ill. He had a long journey. He drank too much. He lost one of his arms.