Only A Father’s Love
My mother would always tell me the story of my birth, the day that I came into this world, the day that I changed her life. The day she will never forget, the day that, as she said, her life changed for the better. She said that as she lay on the table her breathing was labored, her heart was racing, stars were living in her head and then she heard me take my first breath followed by my first cry. Tears running down her face her lip trembling as if she had just been hit in the face with the worst winter storm of ice and snow, and yet she loved me. But according to her the love that she had for me was nothing like that of my father.
Growing up I was beyond daddy's little girl, I was daddy's everything. I was his favorite. He was my rock. He was everything that a father was supposed to be. And when my mother got sick he was my hero, and my counselor, and for the first time I saw my father as something he had never been before and that was sad. Watching my mother die from leukemia was by far the most difficult thing I have ever had to do. Watching pieces of my father died with her was heartbreaking.