Personal Narrative: The Day After My Father

I opened my bedroom window to let the fresh smell of spring air and flowers overpower my senses. I rubbed my eyes and opened them wide to see the bright sun, the birds chirping, and my neighbours playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. Spring is my favourite time of the year. It represents beauty and rebirth, and on this beautiful spring morning, I feel like a new person, free from the bitterness and pointless hatred from my past. It is the day after my father died.
It had been a year since my mom, my younger sister and I had found out that my father was dying of cancer. When my father told us, my mom and sister burst into tears, but all I could think about was him leaving my mom and I for another woman, and now him leaving us for good.
"Kat!...

I sat on my bed, staring at the glowing stars on my wall, with a thousand thoughts flying through my head. Why should I forgive him? He yelled, he ignored, he left. He did nothing for me throughout my whole life. How could I have treated him like that? He is dying! How could I have yelled at him? Am I turning into my father? After slowly erasing all of the thoughts out of my head, the one thought that remained was that my father was dying. This is the moment that I realized what that actually meant. It meant that I would never, ever, see him again, and when I thought about the last words I said to him, my heart felt like it literally broke in half. I began to cry hysterically, so loud that my mom ran upstairs and burst into my

"Yea, I feel okay today. … Listen Kat, I've been thinking about what you said about the pink ballerina. .."
"Oh, dad... I'm sorry... I really overreacted."
"That’s alright, I understand, but please, ... I know you don't like ballet anymore, but when you were younger, maybe around four or five, your mom was watching some ballet on TV. When you saw those girls dancing, your eyes just lit up, and you looked me straight in the face and said, “Daddy, I'm gonna be a ballawina when I grow big.” You pranced around the house for a week straight practicing your ballet, and when I saw how beautiful and determined you were at that age, it made me so proud to be your father."
I could barely catch my breath when he finished his last words. My Pink ballerina was now more meaningful than anything I had ever received in my life. All I wanted to do was hug him and tell him how much I loved him. And this time, I did. I told him how sorry I was for not being with him more during his struggle, and I even thanked him, for as my mom said, making me a stronger person.
My dad past away that night, not with a broken heart, but with a heart finally without a