Editor's note: This is for those who have loved and lost. And for all of us women. We may be a lot of things today - an accountant, an entrepreneur, a lawyer, a stay at home mom, you name it. But before all that, we all share a common background - and that is we're a daughter to someone we call our parents.
I scurried to get my 37-weeks-big-bellied-self dressed when I heard the news. We dashed to the hospital but it felt like forever. When my sister called, from her long, deep sobs – I knew. To God we belong and to Him we return, I repeated calmly with my sinking heart.
I did not cry when I kissed his face and could smell his perfume. “I love you Yan, I will miss you Yan." I whispered softly. I told him what he always told me, "Don't worry, I will take care of everything.”
He apparently had a heart attack and what soon followed with the funeral were both endearing and heartbreaking. I don’t remember crying, until I dreamed of him the next day and woke up weeping.
I did not know my last night with him was our dinner together, him telling me I looked beautiful and playing with my children. I cannot find the right words to describe my love for him and his heart. It would not be worthy of him.
I still see him – in his beloved garden and in my new-born baby. I still see him – grinning when all of us tried to laugh again even though all we want to do is shout out loud and mourn. I can still feel our last hug, and if I knew, I would have never let him go. But I know, I am the captain’s daughter and by captain’s order, the ship must set sail and get underway.