I rocked back on my plastic chair, craning my neck to take in the view. A view interrupted by teens with big eighties hair. I could just make out his car. It had been there for the whole lesson.
The bell rang and students jumped like gazelles. I tried to leave when I heard the teacher call my name. Was it because I had rocked on the chair?
She signalled for me to sit and excused the others. ‘Your father has come to say goodbye.’
I turned toward the window. The car was gone.
I never saw my father again.
This is a flash fiction piece of exactly 100 words.