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The Tale of two dads: Part 1

I just realized I  didn't bring any pictures of my father with me. Not even a single picture file on my computer or in my laptop. I guess it was okay. I don't have too many happy father and daughter memories to recollect anyway. Only this time when I came home from school, with a box of pizza on the table with a note on a napkin that says:


That message was such a big deal to me. My father is the most quiet person I've ever knew. He wasn't a handyman like most fathers. I never saw him lift a hammer or fix a broken chair. He was always away and was only home on weekends and stays in bedroom watch TV all the time.

This routine convinced me that he probably didn't love me. It went on and on until one early morning, we recieved a call from the hospital asking us to claim his dead body. It was around 5 am, I was still half asleep, hoping everything was just a dream. We drove to the hospital and I saw a body wrapped in a blanket on a stretcher. I was shocked. I thought I will not cry until I prove it was him. It was hard to believe it was the same person I called my daddy. As they took him away to the funeral home, a lady came to me and asked "Are you Myric?". "Yes" I replied, "Your father loves you very very much".  I started to cry.

Even though he failed to claim the title THE BEST DAD IN THE WORLD, but he never failed to provide financial support for our education. Our relation-0-meter was almost down to strangers along with his marriage to my mom, but oddly with all my resentments, I cannot deny the fact that I love my father.

I was 15 when he died. I wished we had more time.  It is sad to think our memories were dead even before he died. There are so much in this life that was stolen from us, or we just failed to seize the moment to connect. It was too late. But God said no it's not.

to be continued...


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