My father was the best father anybody could ask for. He was honest and caring. He would do everything he could for his family. He was the one who took care of his dying parents, the one who dropped work when my siblings or I would injure ourselves. He made us laugh and cry tears of joy. He wasn’t aloof but instead very caring. He would have time for us even if he had a busy schedule, and I would never ask for anyone else to be my father.
I love you Baba.
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I was 8 years old when my father was fatally shot twice, hitting him on the chest and shoulder. My father was driving home from work on the night of August 20. My mom was sick, and I stayed up watching over her when the home phone rang. My fathers coworker Amanda was hysterical and asked for my mom. I woke my mother up, visibly scared, and gave her the phone. I don’t know what Amanda told her exactly, but I could see the color drain from my mom’s face. I asked her what was wrong when she began to sob. She told me my dad was in the hospital because he came down with the flu. I believed her: What else was I supposed to think? My father being shot would be the last thing that came to mind. My mom went over to our neighbor (Granny), whose son was the chief of police at the time. Granny was already informed by her son. She took my mother to the hospital, and by the time they arrived, my father was dead for over an hour.