When I was younger, I never understood the serious-looking men coming in and out of our house with their fancy leather briefcases. I never understood why my father would slump down on the couch once everyone had left, an utterly defeated expression on his face.
Despite his underlying troubles, my father was always bright and cheery around me and my mother. And maybe it was this double-sided life of his that finally drove him to his grave.
My father was a lawyer for economically disadvantaged people. The earnings were measly, but he was passionate about his job and loved to help people; he had never turned away a client in all his years. His clients would often say that he had a heart of pure gold. My mother supported his ambitions and tried her best to help with the finances by doing odd jobs. We were a happy middle-classed family with a small home in the suburbs of Virginia.
This all came crashing down on my 7th birthday. I remember my father coming home with a big box. I immediately rushed towards him and wrapped my arms around his right leg. My mother followed behind me, chastising him for coming home late. He dismissed her scolding and handed the box to me.
If I had known that plain-looking cardboard box would trouble my family for decades for years to come, I would never have laid hands on it. But as my 7-year-old self excitedly tore open the box to reveal one of the hottest toys of the year, I only felt the airy joy of a simple-minded child.
To pay for the expensive gift, my father had been taking on more and more cases, including paid ones. He had lost a suit for a big company that sold cigarettes. The company had sued him for negligence.
As we sank deeper into debt, my father grew desperate. His reputation hit rock bottom, and he worked less and less. Sometimes, he would come home deeply intoxicated— if he came home at all.
I think I knew then. My father had fallen into a hole, and it was only getting deeper and deeper. My once hopeful and clear-minded father now seemed blind, as if someone had pulled wool over his eyes.
Then, the day came. The day I would remember for the rest of my life.
At almost midnight, there had been a knock on the door. My mother answered to find two policemen standing on our front porch.
My father was dead.
I don’t remember the exact details, but I know that my mom cried—a lot. I was just numb.
It was an early introduction to the cruel world of society.
Despite his underlying troubles, my father was always bright and cheery around me and my mother. And maybe it was this double-sided life of his that finally drove him to his grave.
My father was a lawyer for economically disadvantaged people. The earnings were measly, but he was passionate about his job and loved to help people; he had never turned away a client in all his years. His clients would often say that he had a heart of pure gold. My mother supported his ambitions and tried her best to help with the finances by doing odd jobs. We were a happy middle-classed family with a small home in the suburbs of Virginia.
This all came crashing down on my 7th birthday. I remember my father coming home with a big box. I immediately rushed towards him and wrapped my arms around his right leg. My mother followed behind me, chastising him for coming home late. He dismissed her scolding and handed the box to me.
If I had known that plain-looking cardboard box would trouble my family for decades for years to come, I would never have laid hands on it. But as my 7-year-old self excitedly tore open the box to reveal one of the hottest toys of the year, I only felt the airy joy of a simple-minded child.
To pay for the expensive gift, my father had been taking on more and more cases, including paid ones. He had lost a suit for a big company that sold cigarettes. The company had sued him for negligence.
As we sank deeper into debt, my father grew desperate. His reputation hit rock bottom, and he worked less and less. Sometimes, he would come home deeply intoxicated— if he came home at all.
I think I knew then. My father had fallen into a hole, and it was only getting deeper and deeper. My once hopeful and clear-minded father now seemed blind, as if someone had pulled wool over his eyes.
Then, the day came. The day I would remember for the rest of my life.
At almost midnight, there had been a knock on the door. My mother answered to find two policemen standing on our front porch.
My father was dead.
I don’t remember the exact details, but I know that my mom cried—a lot. I was just numb.
It was an early introduction to the cruel world of society.