After a long night of looking through picture albums and reminiscing about the old days, I fell asleep in my parent’s bedroom. I woke up the next morning at the alarm of my mom’s best friend storming into the room, screaming for my mom. She charged into the walk-in closet, where my mom had just slipped her clothes on. I heard whispers followed by my mom’s scream. Just before they ran out of the bedroom, I asked them what was wrong but they ignored my question and ordered me to stay in the room. As she turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of my mom’s watery eyes on her pale face, and I realized what was happening.
Without them noticing, I snuck downstairs behind them, and went to the room where everyone was. My brother, my sister, my mom, my mom’s best friend, and my dad’s best friend, were all helplessly crowding around the navy blue bed that my dad was lying on. I remember hiding behind the door, watching, as cancer defeated my dad once and for all.
I was his favorite, I was his baby girl, and I was only twelve. I was taught to stay strong, but when my relatives look back on the great times they had with him, I feel so left out. They would talk about how great of a dad he was, and how I was lucky to have him. But am I really that lucky that I only had twelve years with him? I always try hard to answer this question, and I try even harder to remember how it felt like to have him around. It kills me inside that I am not able to remember his favorite food or even his favorite past time.
Losing my dad lead me to believe that family is the most important presence in our lives. Life is too short and we should spend as much time as we can with our family, because it is precious time that is too valuable to be wasted. At the end of that tragic day, although we lost our father, the breadwinner, and the head of the family, our family came together and became stronger than ever.