I sat at the kitchen counter for breakfast before the first day of kindergarten. As my dad pulled out the Cheerios, he made sure to crack a joke to ease my nervousness. “Let me go grab the milk!” as he pretends to walk downstairs behind the kitchen island. He enjoyed making me laugh. Throughout that year of my life though, things began to change. My dad became sick with pneumonia, and at first, it seemed it would go away. Julia and I would draw him pictures to make him feel better. He was only sick for a few days until his breathing became especially bad. My mom took him to the hospital to then find out that the pneumonia had turned into sepsis;, which was life-threatening. Julia and I had stayed with a close family friend that night, not knowing or understanding what was going on. He fell into a coma because of the lack of oxygen to his brain, and would either never be the same person, or never come out of it. My mom and other close family members decided to take him off life support and he passed peacefully. All of the drawings were cremated with his body, and a memorial service was held at the house a few weeks after. Next month is the twelfth anniversary of his death.

All my life, I have grown up with a single mother. I never had the option to ask my dad something if my mom said no, and I haven’t known anything different. Something like this is tragic, and I would never wish it upon my worst enemy. However, it has made me a much more independent person in the long run. I learned to do things on my own, at a younger age compared to my peers. As I’ve matured, I discovered the important things and grasped the idea of gratefulness.