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It's June. The end of the school year is coming, and so is Father's Day. The kids in your fourth grade class chatter happily as they make Father's Day gifts. Sound familiar?
You look around yourself and see a small girl weeping in the corner, all alone, desk clear. Wait, this isn't normal . . . Not at all. Who is this girl? Why is she crying?
Well, this girl is me, and I'm crying because I have never met my father.
Every year, it was the same thing. From pre-school to fifth grade when we stopped with the whole thing. Every Father's Day, we would write an essay, make a card, and talk about how "amazing" our fathers were. Except for me. My father had died about six months before I was born, so of course, I never met him.
Some people don't appreciate their families. And honestly, I get so mad when I hear, "Omg, I hate my dad!" Or "Ugh . . . I wish my mom would just leave and never come back!" What if they did? What if they left you, and you never saw them again? Then what? Would you say, "I wish my mom was back!"
Honestly, if you get mad at your dear old 'rents, don't yell, don't hate them, because you may not always have them around. So seriously, joking or not, it's still not right to those who don't have those family members.
You walk over to the girl. She sniffles and looks up. "Hey, what's up?" you say. She sniffs again. "Nothing." "What's wrong?" you ask. You know, but you don't want her to know that. "My daddy's been dead, so I don't have anyone to make a card for," she says. You look at her face to see fresh tears streaming down her face. "Oh," you say awkwardly. "I'm sorry . . ." "Don't be," she says. "You didn't do anything . . ." "Oh. Well, it's a stupid thing anyways," you say. "You know, most of us never even give our dads these cards. It's just something for the teachers to give us so they don't have to teach us. That's what my brother told me. Wanna come play with us?" She wipes her eyes on her sleeve, and sniffs again. "O-ok . . ." she smiles, probably for the first time that day.
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