In the year 2002, my family went for holiday in Britain. We were very happy to be at Britain and we enjoyed every bit of what Britain had to offer for our holiday. One day as we walked in the streets in the late evening we were very happy to see the superb lighting in the city streets and the well-developed roads on to realise that our last born was not amongst us. We became worried and my mother burst out crying and running up and down the street shouting the small boy’s name.
My father told my sister and I to have a drink in one of the cafeterias as he went to the nearest police station to report the missing baby. Every one was not at ease thinking of were Brian would have gone and all sorts of thoughts crossed our minds. An hour later my father came to pick us from the cafeteria and united, we began surching for my brother. The police joined us later and the search too place from all the streets especially the streets we had passed.
My mother’s eyes were swollen with crying, as she could not imagine loosing her last-born son who she really loved. Several hours passed as we continued serching for Brian. After almost five hours, we found the boy in a group of other street children playing along one of the roads. Brian himself identified us and started calling my mother. Everyone was so happy to have found him and the tension was over. This was my worst holiday experience and when I was back at school, I wrote it as an essay the worst holiday I ever had.