I was eight years old, sitting on my bedroom floor, completely immersed in my toys. It was an ordinary afternoon—quiet and calm. Then I heard the door creak open, and my dad stepped in. He sat down next to me, gently, as if not to startle me. For a moment, he didn’t say anything—just watched me quietly. Then he leaned closer and said in a soft, serious voice, “Don’t ever leave Mom alone, okay?”
He kissed the top of my head, stood up, and walked out. At the time, it didn’t feel strange. That was just how he was—gentle, kind, always protective. I nodded and went back to playing.
But less than ten minutes later, my mom rushed into the room. Her face was pale, her hands trembling. She grabbed me tightly, and I could see in her eyes that something was terribly wrong. Through her tears, she tried to speak calmly, but her voice cracked as she said, “Your dad… he passed away this morning.”
I just stared at her, confused. What was she talking about? I had just seen him. He’d been right there with me—talking to me, whispering like he always did when it really mattered. But now he was gone?
That was the saddest day of my life. And even after all these years, I still can’t make sense of it. How could he have died that morning… if I saw him that afternoon? I don’t know how to explain it. But I know what I saw. And I’ll never forget what he told me: “Don’t ever leave Mom alone.”
And I never did.
