Driving down the ominous street, the man looked for the right house. The one with the broken porch steps and the dingy, peeling walls. Parking the old, beat-up Jeep, he scrunched his nose as the smell of rodents and insects overwhelmed him. He paused for just a second before getting out of the rundown Jeep, approaching the fading yellow house. The house that held the family that needed the help he could provide. As he got to the door, he could feel the house exhale, starting to sag, relieved to have the needed help. This man is my dad. His job is not like a lot of people’s. Being a probation officer for juveniles means he goes into some of the worst parts of the city of Chicago. Just passing by the rough neighborhoods is enough to unnerve people, but my dad actually goes into these neighborhoods, talking to and meeting the people living there. He sees the living conditions for these kids up close, and it is eye-opening. These are the parts of Chicago that you have probably never been to before. Places where no one wants to be stuck in, but, of course, the people living there are stuck in such a deep hole, they can not seem to get themselves out. Communities that are plagued with constant anger and fear, a mixture that is bound to blow up. My dad is a very strong man, having to see what he sees everyday must be heart-wrenching. In all my life, I have only seen my dad cry very few times, but one of them has stuck with me since. Having such a strong role model has shown me to be more grateful of the gifts I have in life and to be more understanding of the people in it.

At the time, I was eight years old. My mom was in the kitchen, making dinner, and my dad was on his way home. My siblings and I were all in our family room. My brother was bothering me, poking me, pinching me. Anything his five-year-old mind could think of.

“Stop!” I tried asking him nicely before, but I was getting fed up with him.

“Stop!” He said, trying to mimic me.

“Will you both shut up?!” My sister was now eleven, thinking she was all mature, like she was already eighteen.

After twenty minutes, that petty little fight ended when my dad came home. Both my mom and dad came into the room with us, exhausted from our fighting.

“You three need to hug and apologize to each other,” Mom was now scowling, having had to deal with us all afternoon wore her out.

However, one of us said, ‘I hate them’ and my dad seemed to become really upset. We were all surprised, Dad rarely ever became emotional. As he moved toward the couch, we all moved with him. The couch groaned as the five of us sat down at the same time. Little tears started filling the corners of his eyes as he looked at the three of us. Mom gently held onto one of his hands with her own.

“I don’t know if you guys remember this, but your papou’s death anniversary is coming up,” Dad said, not bothering to look at us in the eyes. It was true, though, our grandpa had died nearly six years before. Out of the three of us kids, my sister was the only one that really remembered him.

No one replied, letting the silence fill the room. The room itself seemed to quiet down, understanding the seriousness. As guilt took over the three of us, we lowered our heads in unison.
“I know how fighting with each other is ordinary in every family, but you guys need to always forgive each other. My brothers and I never really got along growing up. There were five of us. You guys need to realize how important it is to have a good relationship with each other growing up. My brothers and I only talk when we have to, never because we want to. Your papou used to yell at us because he hated us fighting so much. I just want you guys to talk when you’re older, to still get along. I just wish we would’ve listened to your papou more,” he paused, more tears filling his eyes. I walked over and sat down next to him, hugging him as he continued.

“Papou always tried to put us in our place if we were being ridiculous or rude. He always tried to make things right, but now that he’s gone, my brothers and I are drifting further and further apart. Just know that whatever your mom and I do now, it’s for the sake of your future.”

He stopped there, putting his head in his hands. Mom moved closer and hugged him harder, starting to cry herself. Seeing them like that, my parents, the strongest people in the world, broken and hurt, stirred something within me. I moved away from my family as too many emotions bursted into my eight-year-old mind, screaming at me. I felt too many things to put into words. Memories filled my brain of my uncles and my dad. They never talked because they wanted to. I never realized how dysfunctional their relationships with each other were until now.
I looked back at my parents, still huddled together like fearful children, then to my brother and sister.Their expressions mirrored mine. The expression of fearful guilt. We all murmured apologies as we hugged. An extremely tight hug. We stayed there for what felt like all eternity, all sniffling with red eyes and runny noses. Our sleeves drenched in tears, like they had been crying themselves.

Dismissing themselves individually, everyone left the room, starting with my dad. Everyone, except me. I could not get over the expressions on my parents’ faces. Of my family’s...family. That word never meant something to me until now. Webster’s Dictionary defines family as “a group of people who are related to each other.” To me, it means a group of people who never give up on each other. Who try and try until trying becomes useless. People who will always and forever love each other no matter what.

Today, that memory still sticks with me. That memory clings to me. Every time I get into an argument with my brother or sister or anyone, I try my best to apologize. Six years is a long time for a memory to still be that vivid, but twelve years is a longer time to be without my papou. Every now and then, I get a little glimpse of my dad from six years ago. Not nearly as much, but when the topic of my grandpa comes up, it is hard for him.
After seeing my dad at his weakest, it has definitely changed me. It has taught me two things. The first, to be more appreciative of everything I have. To be grateful because some people are not as lucky as others. The second, sometimes, parents can not always hold it together. Demons and tensions build up inside, crawling and scratching their way to the surface. They claw and break the barrier of your mind and release their bubbles of stress and anxiety. Sometimes, there is nothing to stop the build-up. Occasionally, we have to witness the demons we hide within ourselves to find the goodness we conceal in our hearts.