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I wasn't even born when my father died.

It is a strange way to phrase such a statement, a sentence without enough emotion to convey how a tiny lightening struck my body whenever I thought about it; an event not taking place on many occasions nowadays. When I had been younger, old enough to walk on two feet and get up with two hands when falling down, but still too young to direct my glance onto the world outside of the apartment we had been living in, the picture of an imaginary father had passed my thoughts more than just once in a while. At the most bizarre times, watching tv or playing with one of the toys my mom had bought me, my conscience had suddenly focused on a thing so far out of my view I had always known it would be unreachable.

As a child, this awareness hadn't stopped me from imagining every possible scenario that involved half of the parents I was missing. Noticing how my mother seemed to fall back into a depression I had never been a witness of whenever I mentioned my father, I had learned pretty early not to bear my longing for him onto anyone else. Instead, I spent most of my nights staring at the ceiling of my old bedroom that had little stars taped on it that shined when embraced by the darkness of lonely nights, trying to become the author of stories that resembled fairytales instead of autobiographies.

In my dreams, my father was always a tall, good-natured hero that, even if he didn't wear a cape, managed to save me from everything threatening my well-being. His faces were different every night. On some days, they resembled the round face of my biology teacher in elementary school who was a mentor for me growing up, on other days he looked nothing like anybody I knew. It never prevented me from taking his hand as soon as my eyes closed and my mind was being pulled down by unknown forces to places it created by itself.

I don't know if my mother didn't possess any photos of him or just refused to show me. Things like that had been creating a growing canyon between us from the moment I had opened my eyes, still a tiny buddle in the arms of nurses and doctors. Being younger, I accepted her silence like children accept most of the things they're told as if everything adults say are rules carved into stone.

Only as I got older things became more complicated. My mother had never been a normal mother, if anything like that existed. Her statement of my father being at a place I could only go to when 'I was much older, almost as old as the scary old woman living down the street', soon lead me to thinking the reason why he was away, whatever that reason may have been, caused her to behave like she did.

I was thirteen, maybe fourteen, when she finally told me it had been a car accident and not, as my childish self may have believed, something spectacular like him giving his heart to someone else to save them. No, it was a rather common way to die, but I got the impression it wasn't a common way to deal with the loss. Like the memory had been newly awoken by telling me about it, everything got even worse for a year.

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