““That evening I was so sad that I didn't know what to do. It was completely impossible to get to sleep. Dad must have understood, because he came up to my room long after he had said good night. He brought his guitar. I didn't say anything. Neither did Dad, who sat on the edge of the bed. But after a while, he cleared his throat and began to play. He played the Trille tune, just like when I was tiny. It's my very own song, and it was Dad who wrote it. When he finished, he said that he'd written a brand-new song for me, called "Sad Son, Sad Dad." "Do you want to hear it, Trille?" I gave a tiny nod. And as the wintry wind swirled around the house and everyone else slept, my dad played "Sad Son, Sad Dad." I almost couldn't see him because it was so dark. I just listened. And suddenly I realized what dads are for.””
